


An Honourable Reign

by witchkings



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Anal Sex, Angst, Bad life decisions, Begging, Blowjobs, Disfiguration, Dom Guldur, Emotional Manipulation, Flashbacks, Hallucinations, M/M, Minor Character Death, Oral Sex, PTSD, Pain, Psychological Horror, Rough Sex, Self harm sort of, Sensory Deprivation, Smut, Torture, Trauma, We call this ship, alternatively Amor Lanc, bad terror management, bard is too good for this world, galion more like employee of the year, imaginary dad instead of imaginary friend, indoctrination, legolas deserves better, major suffering, mentioned angbang - Freeform, mirkwood dale relations, not safe not sane but consensual, painful father-son relationship stuff, shadow daddy cause there ain't no sugar here, spirit fucking, tauriel but I made her cool, unhealthy relationship, where do I even start
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:42:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 61,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23684833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchkings/pseuds/witchkings
Summary: Thranduil never deluded himself by pretending he is a good king, but he always managed and managed well. The long-term aftermath of the Battle of the Five Armies has him struggling though, and his grip on the situation derails. Caught between Bard’s advances and the growing threat from Dom Guldur, Thranduil makes a decision: meet the Necromancer head on and dispel him whatever the cost. It seems the obvious solution to all his problems.But when he gathers his most trusted soldiers and leads a mission into the heart of darkness, things turn from bad to worse. Thranduil is trapped, tortured, torn apart and when he finally encounters the Necromancer, a new path opens up to him. Dangerous and alluring and beyond his wildest nightmares. Thranduil is faced with yet another decision: sacrifice himself for his kingdom or sacrifice all that he loves for a greater destiny.
Relationships: Bard the Bowman/Thranduil, Sauron | Mairon/Thranduil
Comments: 36
Kudos: 88





	1. I Won't Give In

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was conceived during many a long night discussing two of Tolkien's greatest characters in Mairon and Thranduil with my dear friend (darklords on tumblr). Any relationship between these two can only be terrible and dark and this is my/our interpretation of that. It is perhaps an uncommon ship, but one that really fascinated me. As a result this beast was born. A couple of things before we get into this pit:
> 
> -I took side characters from the Hobbit movies for their names and faces because I dislike creating OCs, but made them largely my own in personality.  
> -there will be regular updates  
> -Please read the tags before you read the fic, there might be something triggering for you and I don't want to harm anyone on accident  
> -This fic is named after the song 'An Honourable Reign' by Bury Tomorrow. All chapters will be named after metal core songs and I'd encourage you to listen to them while reading if metal is your thing.  
> Chapter One is named after 'I Won't Give In' by Asking Alexandria. No tws for this one. Feedback is much appreciated, hope you enjoy :)

_Every breath you take  
I watch you slip away  
You're slowly killing yourself  
I won't give in_

“And thus,” Bard said, in conclusion of an exasperated, but hope-tinged monologue. He stood at the head of the long oak table in Thranduil’s council room, surrounded by three of his advisors on one end and Thranduil and his highest-ranking court members on the other. All of them wore varying degrees of fatigue, curled lips, drooping eyelids, frequent yawns, though it was most noticeable with the humans. “I propose the establishment of a securer trade route via the Northern-Eastern borders of the forest, one that can be guarded more easily than the river. Additionally, we would like to request aid in the reconstruction of Esgaroth, reopening the fishing trades which would benefit Dale and the Woodland realm in both economic and provisional terms.”

“That is all well,” said Feren, who - besides his duties as a guard - was Thranduil’s master of the treasury. His long fingers traced Bard’s proposed new roads on the map that was spread over the table. “But why put in this effort when the river route has never failed us? For regular exchange we would need to hew a path through the trees, even out and pave the ground. Extend horses and build wagons. Assign guards to permanently secure the way. Who would do all that? Where would we draw the resources from? It is too costly.”

Thranduil kept his features blank, but he agreed. He took a gulp of wine and watched as Legolas nodded, his mouth set in concentration. He was slow to adjust to his court duties, much more at ease out in the fields, but Thranduil deemed it important to have him learn both and so, the young elf put in the work. Much more determined than Thranduil himself had been at that age with a head full of revels and romance. Long years before he’d ever set foot into the Greenwood.

Across the table, Halvard sprang into action, Bard’s chief adviser. Halvard, though still young, had extensive knowledge of the economics of trade, and replaced Bain in diplomatic meetings as the boy still needed to learn to read and write and cite the Great Histories to a point where he could keep up. Halvard stroked his moustache and said: “Using the river takes too long and draws too much attention, both to our goods and the reconstruction. It would be safer and more efficient to take the direct route and hardly cost more than the upkeep and manning of proper ships.”

“I do not know what calculations you draw upon, but I can tell they are faulty if you think manning ships evens out with all we would have to invest in this road of yours,” Feren said, and his eye twitched, worked to keep from rolling. Thranduil felt for him. It had been a lengthy discussion and even the most patient elf was wont to lose his sanity under the constant assault of human reasoning.

When no one reacted, everyone turned to Thranduil who held Bard’s determined stare and gestured for Legolas to speak.

“Though I cannot speak for the intricacies of construction costs and route efficacy, there is a definite problem with both of your requests,” Legolas said, inclining his head towards Bard. “With all due respect, mylord.” Bard nodded. The strain of kingship had etched blackened half-moons into the skin under his eyes, but he wore the crown with dignity. Thranduil had an urge to have Galion bring him a salve so he could smooth them out, but he kept his hands folded and the safe distance of the oak between them.

“Which would be?”

“Our troops are thoroughly engaged in the forest, where they keep the threat of Dol Guldur at bay. Spiders litter our borders and we suspect that more foul creatures multiply in the depths of those ruins. Every day we fight them at the cost of our own people’s lives. Mind, this ensures your safety as well. If we did not stand between you and what the Necromancer sends forth, Dale would be ruined. We cannot extend people to the construction and guarding of new trade routes, let alone the reconstruction of Esgaroth,” Legolas concluded and Feren hummed in agreement. Brithon, who was concerned with management of the realm’s stocks and animals, crossed his arms. He’d already said his piece on their capacities and had remained silent ever since which was his way.

“Have you still not managed this infestation?” Halvard said. “It is always the same with you people, always the blasted spiders. When can we expect those to stop being a problem?”

“It is not by any help of your people that we will succeed or fail. We ask nothing of you in return, but your patience, that should not be too hard, should it,” Legolas retorted, fists clenched upon the table.

“Legolas,” Thranduil said, and shot a warning look at his son. “That is quite enough.” And, addressing the entire council, eight souls in total: “Mylords, King Bard. I have heard your proposition and considered your arguments. I sadly have to agree that we cannot afford this …project. Trade has been going well, we have access to the construction site via the river and can provide Esgaroth as well as Dale with all the goods we can spare. It would be foolish to exclude the lake from our trades and an unnecessary expense of resources. As per your other… concerns, my officers and I will revise our strategy on dealing with the Necromancer shortly. In the meantime, I will send all those whom I can spare to aid in the reconstruction of Esgaroth. Is that satisfactory?”

Halvard opened his mouth to speak, but Bard quieted him with a raised hand.

“That would be most generous, mylord, thank you.”

“My pleasure.” Thranduil smiled. “Meeting adjourned. I thank you for your eager attendance and will be most glad to welcome you all to dinner in my halls tonight.” A rustle travelled through the room as nine chairs scraped on hardwood floor, clothing moved around bodies eager for fresh air after being stuffed up together for hours on end, nothing but the scent of wine and candles to remind them of life outside the council room. It had been, all in all, a successful day.

“Lord Thranduil, a word in private?” Bard called after Thranduil as he made to leave for a brief period of rest before the night’s feast in honor of their guests. For a chance to take a deep breath and calm the turmoil in his stomach over all the questions, implications of being holed up with the object of his affections and with nowhere to flee. Apparently, his respite was not to be.

Thranduil gestured for his entourage to continue, met Legolas’ questioning eyes with a smile he forced rather than felt. Legolas nodded curtly, to him, then to Bard, and swept away, already deep in conversation with Tauriel, who had stood guard over the council and had meant to join Thranduil on his usual late afternoon walk. Soon their laughter rang through the hollows between the trees that grew inside the palace, then Bard and Thranduil were alone. Thranduil closed the door and sat again, picked up his goblet which was still, thankfully, half full. He took a long gulp before he was ready to meet Bard’s eye.

The King of Dale paced the far-side of the room, one hand rubbing his cheek, the other on the handle of his longsword. He looked handsome in a velvet overcoat of teal and gold, his hair, longer with neglect, was groomed back, and an emerald sat on his left index finger. Thranduil had its brothers in a chest by his bedside. The sight made Thranduil’s heart flutter, though the effect was dampened by the deep furrow of Bard’s forehead. Something troubled the Bowman and it lay very obviously beyond the scope of trade routes. Thranduil smirked into his goblet before he emptied it, the sweet lull of intoxication just enough to untangle the nerves in his chest.

“Speak, Bard Dragonslayer,” Thranduil said and reached for the decanter, filling not his own but Bard’s goblet also and stood to hand it over. “Or hold your peace evermore.” He held out the silver cup in which blood-red liquid reflected their faces, the flickering candlelight. Bard’s shoulders sagged and he took the drink with a grateful smile. For a long moment, they stood together, their worlds overlapping as Thranduil returned the smile and Bard took a sip. His throat moved in an attempt to unhinge Thranduil. Then, Bard coughed and put aside his goblet to fiddle with the trim of his coat.

“It is not my intention to step out of line nor my will to impose my troubles onto one who already has so much on his mind…” Bard trailed off, the picture of a lost deer, wide-eyed and stiff.

“But?”

“But something has been weighing on my heart ever since the battle at the foot of the mountain, and it is the very same thing that has me wake in the morning full of yearning and spent my days distracted.” Bard reached out, pried Thranduil’s goblet out of his fingers and had it join his, taking Thranduil’s now free hand in both of his own. Thranduil’s stomach clenched uncomfortably. He had a notion of what Bard was about to say and already his mind flooded with counterarguments. He averted his eyes but had not yet enough strength to pull back. A deep breath. Another. Never enough. Bard continued:

“I have fallen in love with you, unknowingly and fully, and I would ask you to grant me permission to court you. It is my most desperate wish now that my children’s future is secure, and my people live in comfort. What say you?”

“That would be unseemly,” Thranduil answered, and laughed shakily as he ducked away from Bard and began to pace himself. The air seemed thin all of a sudden, like it couldn't sustain them, and Thranduil suppressed an urge to gulp in more. His nostrils flared.

“How do you mean?”

“You must understand that we are both rulers of separate kingdoms. We have duties to them. My people would never accept you and yours would shun me. I will outlive you by thousands of years. And all of that ignores the fact that we are both male which makes us, by default, incompatible.” Or so years of collected writings on Iluvatar’s creations by Thranduil's brethren and others would have him believe. In reality, gender would not deter Thranduil, but the prospect of a relationship with Bard was so far out of the question that it mattered not.

“Thranduil,” Bard said, the name a sigh, a plea on his lips. “How can formalities of the station be relevant in matters of the heart? We could find a way.”

 _I cannot love you_ , Thranduil thought. _You will betray me, take what is mine and sully it. You will leave me. You may not know it or even want it. But you will._

“There is no matter at hand when my own heart is not affected,” Thranduil said, gritting his teeth. It was like a knife to the gut, the way Bard’s face fell, his mouth forming a soft o. It was all for the best, of course. Bard would move on; their trade relations would remain unimpacted and Thranduil’s fragile heart safely tucked away. Scarred all over as it was, no space left for wounds. The next one would prove fatal and so, he couldn’t risk abandonment at the hand of a loved one, not again. Not if he wanted to be the king, he had promised his father he would be.

Bard opened his mouth to say something, but in that instance Lymerien burst into the room, all heaving breaths. Her long, brown hair was tangled, blood and sweat mingled on her brow as she stumbled towards him. She was a commander in Thranduil’s battalion and, per rotation, responsible for the day’s patrols. Thranduil could guess too well at the implications of her stricken look. Now, the wine turned on him, the sweet alcoholic buzz in his stomach shifting into pure anxious energy.

“Mylord,” she gasped. “Orcs. Lost so many. River.”

“Take a deep breath, commander, and then give me a proper report.” Bard looked alarmed at the state she was in, but sadly, interruptions like this, his officers drenched in blood and in a frenzy, reports of yet more deaths on their lips, had become a regular occurrence. Lymerien took several long inhales that filled her to the point of bursting and with the oxygen, her flicking gaze settled, and she straightened a little. Her eyes were bright with panic.

“Apologies, mylord. We were patrolling the Southern borders when a group of orcs attacked us from the shadows. We fought but were quickly overwhelmed. There were at least three dozen if not more. They followed us back to the river.” The orcs had sparsely ventured out of Dol Guldur since the battle in Dale six months ago, never in groups if they did. This did not sound like a stray group, no. It had the undertones of a planned attack.

“Elbereth save us all, and I thought the spiders were going to be the worst of our problems. Did you kill them all?”

“Yes, the guards came to our aid.”

“Survivors?”

“In the platoon I was with only two, sir. Another five casualties among the guards. Mylord, Feren’s brother was among those who fell.”

Thranduil gritted his teeth. Ethuil had been one of Legolas’ close companions in learning the way of the bow and the sword. They were among the few of his people young enough that their memories were not tainted by dark days of Sauron’s reign, the name Morgoth hardly more graspable than a nightmare forgotten come morning. To lose one of them, a symbol for a new age of the world, an era of supposed peace and growth, was to lose hope.

It seemed the misery had no end. The bodies piled up, soon the woods would be a graveyard more than a home, and there was no keeping the enemy forces at bay. Thranduil had half a mind to personally march into Dol Guldur and deal with whomever hid behind the pseudonym of Necromancer. It seemed the only option left.

“I am sorry for the loss of our beloved brothers and sisters,” Thranduil said and placed a hand over his heart which ached, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of emotional tragedy that surrounded him. “They will be in my prayers tonight. Let me speak to Feren and please report to my son, he will arrange for them to be laid to rest. That is all.”

“Yes, mylord.” Lymerien gave a quick bow and hastened away, leaving specks of ruby on the wooden floor panels.

“I am sorry too,” Bard murmured.

“I thank you. If you feel unsafe now, I would not be offended if you took leave early, though I would still very much enjoy your company at dinner. Until then.” Without another look in Bard’s direction, Thranduil left the council room. He pushed his troubled thoughts over rejecting Bard out of his mind and made for Legolas’ quarters. It was time to handle the situation, themselves if need be.


	2. In Between

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy. :)
> 
> Song: In Between - Beartooth

_I won't let pain get in my way  
I can't have silence claiming me  
We have strength in numbers, strength in numbers  
To get us through the day_

Thranduil glanced through the half-open door to see if his son was in attendance. The space was basked in the golden glow of the first emissaries of sunset, empty dustless corners illuminated, the red carpet aflame. It was a sparse room as Legolas didn’t keep a lot of personal items. A simple bed lined in reds and oranges, a wooden trunk to store his formal clothes. On duty, Legolas wore the same standard issue tunic as all their soldiers, green-gray breeches and a pair of leather boots. He had two sets of them, one he wore, the other lay neatly folded on a bench at the foot of his bed. His mother’s twin blades, the only decorative piece and even that could be made utilitarian, hung over the desk Legolas was currently occupied, his quill scratching over parchment.

“Come in,” he said before Thranduil could knock. He didn’t look up as Thranduil entered, and gently shut the door, didn’t stop writing as his father stepped up to the open window. Thranduil took a deep breath of spring air and it was not as clean as he would have expected. No thick scent of budding flowers, no grassy wet fumes of rejuvenation after a hard winter. The air was warm and watery, but also thick with blood. He could smell it even up here, feet above the ground.

“Have you come to chastise me? I know I spoke rashly.” Thranduil smiled to himself. So overeager. 

“You spoke the truth,” he replied.

“What then?”

“Where is Tauriel?”

“Retired for the night, she did not expect you to finish so soon.”

Ah, well, she would find out soon enough. Thranduil related Lymerien’s report to his son and, though his gaze still danced among the few birds that dared venture over Mirkwood, he knew Legolas had tensed up, almost breaking the quill. Ink splotched the parchment, ruined the clumsy little alphabet he was copying. A storm raged inside of him.

“No,” Legolas hissed. “They would not dare.”

“They did. Ethuil has fallen.” A sharp intake of breath. A few tears hastily wiped away. A fit of rage barely swallowed. Consuming him from the inside. Thranduil had watched this display countless times. Young as he was, Legolas still mourned like a mortal, rough and messy, burning through his grief and coming out the stronger for it. He still believed in the old prophecies and proclamations, the myths of Mandos’ halls and the remaking of the world. It was nearly unbearable.

“It is time we end this,” Thranduil said. The finality of his tone surprised him, and he understood that he would lay down his life for this cause. Only one way out for him, but a brighter future for his people written in the stars. Not for much longer.

“Let us wage war then,” Legolas said, and walked up to Thranduil’s side. “Let us march to their gates and besiege them, drive the Necromancer out for good.” A gust of wind made Thranduil’s cuff flutter. He curled his fingers against the anger that rose in his heart. Was this to be his legacy? A dying realm abandoned by the seasons of the world. A rash military decision that would cost them everything. Thranduil had thought about it, simply gathering all their strength and running the place down. Oropher would be in fits over the fact they even considered it. “Ada?”

“Do you remember our settlements on Amon Lanc?” he asked Legolas, gesturing in the general direction of the hill that was now so fatefully called Dol Guldur. It had been theirs, once upon a better king. Legolas hesitated for a long moment as his consciousness clouded over. Then, he replied:

“I remember sleeping under star-hung skies. I remember the wind in my hair and our songs filling all the forest. I remember the heartbreak I felt when we moved northward. The trees are my home, but so is the sky.”

“All Arda is our home, ion nîn. It was made for us.”

“Which is why we have to take it back,” Legolas said. He gripped the windowsill so hard his knuckles popped.

“Yes, but not by marching up to their front gate where they have the high ground. Our numbers are dwindled and theirs unknown. Then there is the Necromancer whose abilities could very well ruin us. If he is who I think he is, it would be folly. We should fight him from here, where we remain strong.”

“You believe he has returned then?” Thranduil smiled sadly and caught his son’s eyes which were shimmering blue, full of turmoil. Legolas knew of the wars against Sauron and the Last Alliance only from tales and scrolls, but they were enough to make him tremble in fear.

“I do, but he is weak.”

“What course of action do you propose?”

“A simple one. I will take a few soldiers into the fortress and face him. I am still powerful while these halls remain unsullied.”

Never mind that it had taken Galadriel, Elrond and Saruman to rescue Gandalf from the clutches of the Necromancer. This was different in one regard: if Gandalf’s reports were to be trusted, the Nine were not stationed in Dol Guldur anymore but had either retreated to Gundabad or returned to Mordor. If they were not in attendance, Thranduil reckoned he just might have a chance. At least he had the advantage of an unblemished and healthy feä and the experience of having faced this sort of monster before. His kin had dueled greater tyrants, why should he not be able to take on a fragment of one?

“It is risky,” Legolas said, rubbing his chin. “You could be killed or end up his prisoner. But if it works…”

“If it works the trees can blossom once more and Eryn Lasgalen may rise again,” Thranduil said, and smiled as they both got lost in a dream. Not the dreary, weakened treetops before them, but a paradise of greens and reds and golds, birds chirping once more, deer prancing in meadows and the river bubbling, free of the foul stench of dark magic. The home they had fallen in love with. It could not compare to Menegroth and the wide ranges of Doriath, of course. Nothing ever would. But Thranduil had loved it nonetheless and he was willed to give his life to regain it.

“And how splendidly she would rise. When will you leave?” Legolas asked, his voice hazy with distant visions. It meant almost more to him who had gotten only a taste of the true splendor of Oropher’s realm, his short lifetime not enough to sate him. No, he had known a king paralyzed by grief, and a home caught in slow decay.

“Ere the week is over, I think. I want you to withdraw all scouts and focus on fortifying our borders. Send none of our troupes to Esgaroth, I will recruit our builders and carpenters-.” Thranduil had promised Bard those he could spare, a condition that would come in handy. Of course, every citizen of his realm was always ready to take up the sword, but not all preferred it to be their fulltime occupation. A few had specialized in construction and they would be more than enough for a meager human town.

“I will do my best to protect our people in your absence.” They exchanged a hand over their hearts and Thranduil made to leave to change - he could not appear before the men of Dale in the same outfit twice without risking to lose his carefully groomed reputation of vanity- , but his hand hovered over the handle of the door, a nagging thought on his mind.

“Legolas?”

“Yes, ada?”

“If fate wills it that I should not return…” The sunlight cast half Legolas’ face in shadow, accentuating the fight on his face. Torn between what his heart told him to answer and what Thranduil had engrained in his mind. Too often had Thranduil gotten the worse end of the deal when he let his feelings decide on his actions. He would not let his son fall into the same trap.

“I will not search for you,” Legolas said finally, his mouth twisted in dismay. Thranduil bowed his head.

“Thank you.”

“But I would appreciate your best efforts, I do not feel like I’d make a good king just yet. Nor do I want to lose you.”

“Rest assured that I will do all that is within my capabilities. I can hardly let you take the throne with a temper like that,” Thranduil said though his throat felt blocked. This felt too much like farewell already. He smiled away the prickling in his eyes and Legolas laughed, merry once more. Now only to keep face and entertain for the rest of the evening. No challenge at all.


	3. Elegies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is named after the song 'Elegies' by Make Them Suffer. It's a beautiful song, and if you don't like the sound, I'd urge you to check out the lyrics. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)

_At the end of it all is only a teardrop to remember you by.  
A keepsake from the birds, an elegy for what we could have shared._

Dinner was a solemn affair, the elves downcast by reports of the battle, Legolas deep in thought about their new mission and Bard dejected, his eyes darting over to Thranduil about twenty times per minute. Bard’s envoy were the only merrymakers among them as they had two goblets of Dorwinion for an appetizer which rendered most humans drunk to the point of incapacitation. Their words slurred together, but they ate with the fervor of starved dwarfs.

Before things could get out of hand, Thranduil dismissed the table to do as they wished and retreated to his chambers, having barely eaten. He didn’t feel hungry. Too much weighed on him, questions and answers alike and none of them too carefully examined. Sleep evaded him and before long, the sun peaked over the trees again and it was time to face another day, a shadow of a great king. Another day, as he strove to be a good one.

“Mylord,” Galion greeted him with a modest breakfast of fruit, and his favorite robes, crisp and cleaned. Thranduil dismissed him with a grateful nod though he couldn’t stomach food, not with the ordeal that was ahead of him. See the guests from Dale off. Hold the funeral rites for their lost soldiers. And then, start preparing his son for his absence.

Thranduil ignored his breakfast and dressed himself, allowed himself a while to sit by the window and comb his hair. For minutes at a time, he imagined that it was not his own hand that guided the brush, but his mother’s, on a long-ago day in spring when he had been young and the darkness a faraway prophecy. He snapped back into reality as the brush caught on a tangle and pulled painfully on his scalp. Ah, the sweet lull of memory, a treacherous path.

Before long, the sun had risen and Thranduil lay down his brush and made for the door. Opening it to come face to face with Bard who had his fist raised, red-faced. He wore a travelling cloak and an elaborate crown of gold and ruby which the dwarfs had fashioned for him. They’d be much angered to see him without it, but Thranduil hated the blasted thing, it made Bard look snobbish and arrogant. The weight of it seemed to physically affect him too. Whenever the bowman wore it, his shoulders were hunched.

“This is uncalled for,” Thranduil commented and cursed himself for being careless. His own crown lay discarded on his windowsill. Bard shrugged. “I know you haven’t been raised a royal and taught etiquette, but it should lay within the capacity of your common sense not to come knocking at the door of a king’s private chambers.”

“I hadn’t knocked yet,” Bard said. Thranduil rolled his eyes and bit his tongue. He adopted a leisurely posture and leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, but inside he was high-strung and ready to bolt should Bard confront his feelings again. As long as Bard didn’t come too close or, Eru forbid, touch him, everything would be under control. Thranduil did not trust himself to deny physical affection once initiated.

“Technicalities. How can I be of service?” he asked.

“I had wanted a private chance to say goodbye.” Bard fidgeted and glanced down the corridor to either side. This time of day, they were deserted though. Legolas would have been up long before daybreak and everyone else was busy with their usual tasks. Galion knew better than to bother him after breakfast and Thranduil hardly had need for a personal guard. This high up, the sleeping quarters would be the last place invaders could reach and if something came from the outside, well, a guard by the door was about as effective as none at all. Thranduil kept a dagger by under his pillow anyway.

“What else?”

“To apologize for my subjects’ – well, mainly Halvard’s - behavior. I know this must be a hard time for you and we are grateful for your continued service not only to your own, but also our security. I am sure they did not mean disrespect.” There was yet more, crouched in the tension of Bard’s jaw.

“And?”

Bard’s shoulders sagged even further, and a moment of pure misery hushed over his features. He looked ten years aged in one second, a painful reminder of why Thranduil had to deny them both a shot at love.

“And to kindly ask you to reconsider what we spoke of yesterday. Even though your words have been clear, I feel like there is more to say on the matter and I am unsatisfied with your answer. For all we have gone through together, I cannot believe you entirely uninterested in me.”

“You would have me rehash my arguments and reject you again?” Thranduil asked and raised an eyebrow. His throat felt too tight and it was all he could do to hold his ground when Bard took a step towards him. Less than a foot to separate them, less than a foot to protect Thranduil’s sanity. Of course, he wanted Bard. That had never been a part of the paradigm. How could he not, when those soft eyes gazed at him full of affection. How could he not, when the man had slain a dragon, a feat which among Thranduil’s people turned one into the subject of legend and song? How could he not, deprived as he was of the care of another?

“I would have you admit that you feel the same way. And I promise you, that we can work out all the rest. It needn’t be complicated, Thranduil.”

Rough fingers came up to cup his jaw and Bard leaned closer, closer. Thranduil closed his eyes and delivered the deathblow, his heart pounding too loudly for him to hear his own words.

“I will leave,” he said, and Bard froze. “And I cannot say for certain that I will return.”

“Where to?”

“Dol Guldur.”

“No. You cannot mean to go there. It is folly.” Bard’s face transformed from flushed to pallid. He jerked back from Thranduil as though he had stung him and the crown on his head lurched sideways. It would have been funny if not for the gravity of the situation.

“It is the only way.”

“There must be-“

“There is not, and you cannot convince me otherwise. You have faced a dragon to save your people, I will face the Necromancer for mine.”

“That is hardly the same thing,” Bard exclaimed.

“I don’t see the difference. Please leave. And if you are wise, you will look to find happiness elsewhere. Even if I return, I cannot give you what you seek.”

He gestured in the general direction of the halls, the gates. For a moment, Bard struggled, his mouth opening and closing several times. Something shifted in his posture and Thranduil sighed in relief when he walked away. Almost.

“Do you love me?” Bard asked as he turned to look at Thranduil one last time.

“Farewell, meleth,” Thranduil replied. He waited for understanding to dawn on Bard’s features, for him to make one last stand, the one that would bring Thranduil to his knees. But the King of Dale spoke not a word of Sindarin. He left.

Seeing the Dale delegation off was a mere formality after that and Thranduil was impressed at how well Bard managed to veil his despair. They exchanged niceties and promises of future councils, well-wishes and farewells. All of them felt empty and vain. If only Bard hadn’t managed to fall in love with him. Alas, Thranduil was fated to break his heart.

One of the platoons under Legolas’ command rode with Bard and his men to the border of the forest and then that was that. Thranduil took a long bath to wash off the grime of emotional turmoil and prepared himself for the duty of seeing the fallen off as well. When he left his chambers this time, the moon was already high in the sky and there was no beautiful man to pester him. There were only the empty hallways, thick with the promise of grief.

Tradition held about a hundred different procedures for a funeral rite, but practicality warranted a simple one, as the body count was high. If there had been time, Thranduil would have held a single ceremony for each of the fallen, a personal and intimate one with what they supposed would be the subject’s favorable means of passing on. But that would draw out the sorrow and they had to be ready and back on their guard come morning.

Thranduil had Legolas organize a pyre in a meadow outside their palace, almost its own fortress of wood, with beds of shavings for each soldier. The dead had been cleaned of blood and dirt and clad in green silk, Sinda and Silva alike. Some twenty faces, forever locked in serenity, stared into the treetops and the stars beyond. Some four hundred faces, twisted with grief and tears that glistened in the filtered moon light, were huddled around the pyre, bearing flowers on their heads and hands. Not all elves had come by any stretch, but the air was thick with the sweet fragrance of every kind of wildflower that grew in the forest, nonetheless.

One by one, they stepped forward to place their offerings at the base of the pyre until it looked not like a castle, but a ship sailing in a sea of blossoms. Then there was quiet, and all eyes turned to the king. Thranduil, who stood at the head of the structure, wearing not his crown but a wreath of red and white blossoms on his head, spoke:

“Tonight, we say farewell to brave soldiers, siblings, parents and friends who have died in order to protect us and our home. While the hour of death may not be foretold nor eagerly expected, all whom we mourn today have stepped into their duty with the knowledge that they might give their lives any moment for the protection of others. Now it is left to us to uphold their memories and honor their sacrifice. To all of you I promise that their deaths were not in vain and that I will do everything in my power to prevent more loss of life. To all who have left us I say thank you. For your service and your passion. For fighting to your last breath. May Manwë’s winds bear you swiftly home and Elbereth light your way. May Iluvatar watch over you until we are reunited.” He recited the names of those who had perished and as the last name left his lips, Legolas cocked a burning arrow and shot it in a high arc so that it landed on top of the pyre. For a long minute, nothing happened, and murmurs broke out among the crowd. Had the arrow been extinguished? Was it not the Valar’s wish to burn these bodies?

Then, the night roared to life around them, flames licked high into the sky, threatening to spill over onto the neighboring trees and Thranduil swallowed around his dry tongue. The crackles and hisses of the fire gradually subsided until it returned to a state tamer and more controlled.

Relief flooded the atmosphere and as the bodies burned, the elves, Sinda and Silva alike, took up a song of mourning and hope. They sang of a voyage over great leagues of water, Eärendil overhead to guide the lost souls home. They sang of the homecoming to Valinor, of choirs of Eldar welcoming their kin. They sang of the vast halls of Mandos whose glory was unmatched. A new home and a hope for a second chance. Thranduil did not join in and he felt the irritation in Legolas and Feren who stood to either side of him. Next to Legolas, Tauriel had her hands clasped behind her back, a wreath of twisted dandelion atop her brow. She sang with her eyes closed and Thranduil wanted for her ease, her familiarity and comfort with these sacred words. It felt treacherous to sing them and so he let his eyes wander from body to body. From face to face. Said his personal goodbyes. With each of them, a piece of himself had died too. Thranduil felt chipped down. He desperately needed a moment of quiet conversation with Tauriel. He needed a break.

Once the song was over and the bodies reduced to ashes, Thranduil’s people disappeared back into the safety of the palace. Feren thanked them both under violent sobs and retreated with hung shoulders. Tauriel, grieved in spite of her dry eyes, kissed Legolas’s cheeks, then stepped up to Thranduil.

“A midnight tea, perhaps?” she asked quietly, as she drew him into her arms. Thranduil’s throat tightened.

“If you please.”

Tauriel nodded and left. Only he and Legolas remained, transfixed by the fire.

“I know I should take heart and have faith. But the nights are haunted, and I fear for you, nonetheless. Ada, please, promise you will return?”

“I will do no such thing,” Thranduil replied and blinked. His eyes were irritated by the heat and the smoke eating away at them. His lips singed by the sparks of anger he felt at the request which forced him to deject, disappoint. Legolas said no more, left too, with hunched shoulders. Thranduil stared into the flames until they died.


	4. Settle Down Society

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil takes his most trusted soldiers into the heart of the enemy forces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters today because I feel antsy. Song is 'Settle Down Society' by While She Sleeps. Enjoy :)

_Better I listen to myself when I'm  
Burnt from the flames but still fuel the fire  
I can't promise I'll be home  
Can't promise I'll be home_

The days blurred together after that, filled with all kinds of tasks. Thranduil fought, both physically and verbally, he answered queries from East and West alike, but mostly he steeled himself for what was to come. Goodbyes were sparse as few of his court knew his mission and only Legolas, and those who had been asked or had chosen of their own accord to join him, the whole extent of it.

Feren who, after a day of grief, knelt before his king’s thrown, flushed with rage and demanding a chance to exact his revenge.

Tauriel who was by default as deep in Thranduil’s council as Legolas. She had served him personally from the day Oropher had been crowned. Had had a hand in raising Legolas and keeping Thranduil sane throughout the years of misery that came before and after. Had been a friend when all others seemed to forsake him and Thranduil had returned the favor plenty of times. Tauriel enjoyed his whole-hearted trust and when Thranduil had filled her in on his mission, she had merely cocked her fiery head. “When do we leave?”

Lymerien who was the most skilled blade artist Thranduil had had the pleasure of commanding in several hundred years. She was older than Legolas, though not by more than a couple centuries, and would that have been Thranduil’s style, she would have made for an excellent assassin.

The last to join their party was Elros. He was – when not intoxicated – the only other soldier besides Lymerien and Tauriel who could at times outmatch Legolas in combat. Thranduil had never fought him, nor thought much of him, but Legolas and Tauriel recommended him so fiercely, that Thranduil approached him. Elros was eager to return to grace, make up for his shortcomings in the whole ordeal with the dwarves and their burglar.

Soon enough, their party set out to safe their home and the light kiss Legolas had pressed to his father’s cheeks upon his departure lingered there still as they passed out of their realm. Into the wild.

“What is our strategy, mylord,” Tauriel asked as she rode up to his side. Lymerien scouted ahead and the other two rode single file behind them.

“Simple,” Thranduil said. “I find the Necromancer and banish him. Your task is to make sure I live long enough to succeed.” Tauriel nodded and related this to the others. No more was said after.

It was a ride of a day, suspiciously uneventful, before they found themselves at the Necromancer’s settling. Broken towers jutted into the dingy air; jagged stone littered the hillside. The orcs hidden by a magical glamour. It was second only to Mordor on Thranduil’s list of places in Middle-Earth he did not want to enter at any cost. It was to be his destiny, or his downfall.

They dismounted and released their horses. The ruins were no place for animals and Thranduil murmured into his steed’s ear, a command to find his way back home. That way at least, Legolas would know they had made it as far as the hill itself. The horses trudged off, faster the farther they left Dol Guldur behind. No turning back now.

Their hearts full of determination, Thranduil and his guard gathered by the entrance. He tried not to think of the past, of the dances he had shared with his wife on the very grass he stood on, no matter how withered it was now. Tried not to think of the lullabies he had sung to Legolas by his bedside, or the permanent smile etched onto Oropher’s face. Here they had been happy and once they had moved north, all had come to ruin. His wife had never joined them in that journey, choosing instead another home for herself.

“I remember too,” Tauriel said. She put a hand to his shoulder, enough of a wake-up call. Thranduil shook himself and invoked every ounce of belief, every ancient prayer within his heart.

“May the Valar grant us safe passage,” he murmured and crossed the border to where all their fates would be decided, strode by an unhinged mental gate. His heart was steady, but a shiver ran up his arms once he was inside, the air thick with dust and decay.

A deep gloom had veiled Dol Guldur in permanent dusk, the sun obscured by whatever spirits festered here. This would be the future of Thranduil’s home too, if his mission failed. The small metal grate fell shut behind his guard, unprompted and with a shrill shriek. They were as good as trapped. He exchanged a look with the four elves behind him and they all nodded, their eyes hard and determined. This would be their last effort.

Thranduil banished all thought of his home from his mind, wiped away the clouds of worry that had hung in Legolas’ eyes as they had hugged goodbye, the world of hurt in Bard’s on his final rejection. He had to be focused now, focused like he hadn’t been in hundreds of years. Fighting orcs was easy, mindless even, but they were dealing with much more than that. This was a task that demanded him to channel his spirit and use it as a weapon. Thranduil took a deep breath and stepped forward, towards doom or victory, he couldn’t tell.

As they entered the first corridor that lead into the fortress, the forest behind them disappeared for good. Where before, shadows of trees had murmured soothingly in the harsh winds, now there was only stone and shadow, there to swallow them whole. None of their party spoke as Thranduil lead them around corners, down stairs, deeper and deeper into peril.

The first scream came as Thranduil entered a wrecked courtyard. He was too focused not to stumble over the jutting marble, that had once depicted a great dragon which now lay shattered, weeds between its scales, to notice the assault. When he whirled around, Elros and Feren stared at him, wide-eyed. Tauriel traced a nearby wall with her fingertips, her lips curled. Lymerien was nowhere to be seen. Dread filled Thranduil’s lungs.

“Where is she?” he asked, his fingers clenching around the hilt of his sword. The others had drawn theirs, the blades still quivering.

“She vanished,” Elros whispered. He held his blade close to his chest and his eyes darted all over the place.

“Should we go after her, mylord?” Feren asked.

“I cannot even tell which direction she disappeared in,” Tauriel said and pushed past the others, closer to Thranduil. “There is no point in diverting our attention, Lymerien knows her way around a horde of orcs. We can find her after our work is done.”

“Let us press on then,” Thranduil said and continued to make his way across the minefield of shattered stone. The others followed after some hesitation and they dove back into the twisted maze of corridors, shadows curling at their feet. The dread in Thranduil’s chest grew. Soon, they would be at the heart of the fortress and face whatever spirit had settled here. He could only pray to Elbereth that it was not the one he feared. All the signs were there, however, Gandalf finding the Nine broken out of their cages almost left no other option. Still, there was hope.

The second scream echoed off the stone walls moments later. Followed by a third. Thranduil tasted bile in the back of his throat and cursed himself for his own lack of care. He should have come by himself in the first place.

“Mylord,” a strong voice by his side said, a flash of auburn and green. Thranduil stopped in his tracks. They had entered a large hall, a broken chandelier dangled dangerously from the ceiling, dusty splintered planks of wood covered the floor and there were only two of them left. Tauriel drew in a sharp breath.

“Find them,” Thranduil said and turned to her. She shook her head, grim determination written into every line of her features.

“My duty is to you, mylord. I will not leave your back exposed.”

“Tauriel, I am not asking you. You are skilled, but not even you can fend off an entire army. My odds are better if I do not have you there to hinder my movements. Find the others and come back. If I am beyond hope you will abandon me and return home. Do not press on if I have fallen, do you hear me?” She nodded curtly. “Now go. That is an order.” It might have very well been the last he’d ever give her.

She and Thranduil went separate ways, her echoey, high-pitched cry came not two breaths later. No. Thranduil sent a silent prayer to Iluvatar, begging for all of their safe passage out of this cursed place. Whether home or elsewhere was not in Thranduil’s power anymore. He could only press forward and expel this demon before it could swallow them all.

Thranduil emerged onto another courtyard, this one the biggest yet, paved with cobble stone. Shattered windows faced it from all sides and animal skeletons lay in heaps against the surrounding stone walls, woven through with warg droppings. Fresh ones too. Thranduil shuddered inwardly, thinking back to the Battle of the Five Armies where he had beheaded many of the beasts, where they had all thought themselves victorious over the orc armies. This was it then. If Thranduil had found signs of inhabitation, he was at the right spot.

“I wish to speak to the master of this fortress,” Thranduil said clearly, his loud voice thrown back at him. “I come in peace.” 

As if the Necromancer had waited for this, the air around Thranduil tore open, guttural sounds filling the magical dome that encompassed Dol Guldur, dark and cursed words he hadn’t heard since the Last Alliance and he closed his eyes for a moment, took a shuddering breath. Though he had wanted to deny his conclusions, doubt his own wisdom, his idea of what they faced had been accurate all along. As orcs spilled from all cracks and crevices, closing in on him with faces full of scars and nails, growls full of spittle, swinging swords, axes, maces, bones, the voice grew louder, broke through Thranduil’s eardrums and spilled into his mind. Thranduil knew not what the words meant, but their jagged edges scraped against the inside of his skull and he gritted his teeth. His knees shook, something warm and wet ran down the side of his neck. Still, the voice grew louder, and images tore through his head, the Greenwood ablaze with ravaging fires, his subjects’ heads on spears, their flesh devoured by beasts straight from Arda’s deepest abyss.

“I am not afraid of you,” Thranduil growled back and he straightened himself, drawing his sword. More words, deeper, lulling him away from consciousness. His spine tingled as his brain felt as though it was being liquefied and still, Thranduil stood, blade pointed at the oncoming horde which had started to chant and stomp their feet in the rhythm of their master’s deep drawl.

The first orc charged at him with a curved dagger held high over his smashed-in head which Thranduil cleaved off, though he stumbled as the spirit assaulted him again, entering his body where it closed around his heart, and, instead of a clean cut, the head dangled off the orc’s neck. Black blood spurted out of the wound, speckling Thranduil’s face and he screwed it up in disgust, his free hand clutched over his chest.

“Is this all you got,” he panted and with all the force that remained him, exorcised the voice from his mind. It did not leave his body though and as his head cleared and his ears stopped bleeding, a dark fog settled over his lungs. When Thranduil tried to take breath, the words spilled from his own mouth, so unused to this cursed tongue, twisting them even further. A laugh echoed deep inside of him. No air to nurture him. The orcs gave a collective roar and charged. Thranduil barely managed to drive his blade through one tortured heart before his whole body convulsed and he collapsed, the world around him blinking out of existence.


	5. Sleepwalking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A day early because I have to work tomorrow. Song is 'Sleepwalking' by Bring Me The Horizon, I hope you enjoy this chapter.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: mild gore, violence

_Your eyes are swallowing me  
Mirrors start to whisper  
Shadows start to see  
My skin's smothering me  
Help me find a way to breathe_

The room they locked Thranduil into was bare safe for a dusty old cod of straw that whispered dully as he turned to his side, his bones joining in the murmur as if he had lain there for a hundred years. Judging from the way his skin tugged under the half-dried blood on his neck, it had been mere minutes. Thin rays of muddy light fell through a crack under the door, otherwise Thranduil was cast in darkness. They had stripped him of his armor, his sword and circlet, left him in leather breeches and a simple velvet tunic of dark blue. It was not cold yet, but night was bound to break, and there was no blanket, the mattress covered by a layer of thin, dirty cotton. Before he even thought to check his wounds, Thranduil’s hand went to his chest where, usually, a worn arrowhead on a ribbon rested, a gift from a younger, quirkier Legolas. Thranduil had worn it for over half a millennium and now it was gone. Panic, like ice water, washed over him.

“It’s for luck, ada,” Legolas had said.

“What is it, love?”

“The first ever arrow I hit bull’s eye.” And the childish grin had melted Thranduil’s heart enough that he had let Legolas place it around his neck. Hadn’t taken it off since. Wide-eyed, he searched the bed with his hands, went on all fours on the ground, the impact of stone against his knees sending a shiver of pain through his body, but to no avail. He found a few discarded sticks and dusty bones and something sticky in the corner which he couldn’t identify in the dark. It smelled foul, like the decayed flesh of small mammals. Thranduil wiped it on his trousers and scurried back into the corner where his makeshift bed was situated, pressed himself as hard against the walls as they would allow for. At least his father’s rings were safely tucked away in a chest by his bedside, side by side with Girion’s emeralds and the white gems of Lasgalen. Thranduil never wore the rings to battle, they’d hold too great a power for his enemies to use. Not magic, exactly, but full of memories and secrets. Thranduil let his uninjured cheek rest against the cold stone and waited for his captor to come calling. He didn’t have to wait long.

A harsh draft set the air in the room into movement, whipped around him like a dry whirlwind. He wasn’t alone anymore, no. The space around him was filled with malevolence and bloodthirst so thick he could feel it shuddering against the bare skin of his neck. A wordless whisper.

“Who is there?” he called out though he was certain he knew the identity of his visitor. The hair on Thranduil’s limbs stood up and his good eye twitched. “I would have you treat with me as befitting of my station.” Thranduil raised himself from his crouch on the cod and straightened what remained of his clothes, his dignity. His hair swayed in the wind that still circulated the small room, though it was no fresh breeze. A thick sulfuric stream that clogged up his airways. Carefully testing out his legs, he took a step towards the center of the space, where the sense of other was strongest. Sharp pain shot up his left leg, but it was not enough to incapacitate him. Thranduil stretched out his hand, ready to grasp at the spirit of the Necromancer who probably had a grand time mocking Thranduil, and grabbed at … nothing. He blinked.

The uneasy feeling of an evil spirit, watching him, evaporated and the air went back to being stale and dusty. Not even a trace of acid.

“I have not imagined you,” Thranduil said and started to pace. Three strides across. Turn. Three strides across. Turn. He was met with the distant bark of wargs, the grunts and command calls of orcs. Thranduil knew nothing of the speech of Mordor. Even had he wanted to learn it, he would have struggled. The words tasted foul and his mouth felt raw from before. Any more of it and his skin might burst.

“Is this what you revert to? The dark does not scare me, Gorthaur.” Quiet, eerie and full, now that even the orcs’ cries had ceased. The light outside faded and Thranduil knew if he lay down now, the absence of it would freeze his spirit. He would be forsaken.

So, he walked on. Tried to clear his mind of all thought, for if he lingered on anything, he was bound to fall to madness. The fate of his guard, Feren, frantic as he joined his brother in death, Elros under the impression that Thranduil meant for him to suffer, Tauriel and Lymerien easy prey for the perverted horrors of thirsty orcs. Legolas all by himself, not yet aware they would likely never look upon the wonders of their home again, not together. The hordes of orcs as they marched upon the forest with torches and hatred, their wargs bound to tear apart his kingdom. Bard, who would be next, under the impression that Thranduil wanted no part of him, eaten alive by the filthy beasts. Lake-Town aflame once more. Stop.

One step after the next, he told himself. Keep breathing. One step. After the next. All was not lost yet. If only one of the others managed to escape, if he could only keep the Necromancer’s attention on himself. Legolas was clever, he might not be a diplomat, but he knew his formations, his strategies. Every tree that made for a good look-out and every clearing that posed an excellent opportunity for a trap. He would protect what Thranduil had failed to save. If only.

“Talk to me,” he screamed, having paced half the night away. The moon had not enough power to make his way into Thranduil’s confinement, but his sense of time was not yet affected. “I demand your attention.”

It was in the early hours of morning that his knee demanded he stop. It throbbed hotly, tendrils of pain that reached out in both directions and rendered him immobile. For a moment, Thranduil considered pushing through, keeping himself upright by sheer power of will. If he lay down now, the flood would come, and it would drown him head to toe. He took another step and his leg buckled. Gasping through the pain in his lower half, he crawled back onto the mattress, facing the wall. It was all he could do to catch himself, but as he did so, the untamed stone drew angry rashes across his palms.

Thranduil closed his eyes. His stomach rumbled, but hunger was the least of his problems.

 _I should sleep_ , he thought. _Be ready for when he comes for me. He is bound to come for me. Thirsty for blood and nourishment other than the physical._ Thranduil did not need the flimsy advice of a wizard to know that Sauron fed on suffering.

Rest did not come at will. Thranduil kept waking up with a start, hot all over, unable to draw breath. His knee pulsed and ached, chipped away at his resolve until he succumbed to the horror of his guilt.

He watched Feren beaten to a pulp in the corner of an equally small and disgusting cell, tears gleaming on his cheeks. Unable to do anything but scream in horror as Feren begged for his brother, his long-passed mother, his king, anything. Cracks filled Thranduil’s head as bones broke.

He watched Lymerien, crouching against the wall, her teeth bared at two orcs who grinned down at her. They were unnaturally muscular, even for orcs, and wore daggers at their hips and a black hand across their face. Lymerien propelled herself forward, used the stone for leverage and broke the neck of the first orc, only for the second to grab her arm and break it. She howled in pain but didn’t back down. Within seconds, he had her down on the ground, a hand on her throat. Squeezing.

He watched Elros hacked to bits and fed to the wargs. They lapped up his blood and sucked his bones clean. Elros screamed until he didn’t.

He watched Tauriel, tragic, bright Tauriel with tears of rage on her cheeks and prayers on her lips. She held what remained of her tunic to her chest, trying to cover as much of her bruise-stained body as possible. Shivering against the angry bite of the toxic atmosphere.

Distantly, Thranduil was aware that these scenes were mere fabrications of his mind, but the more he treaded the thin line between waking and self-enforced unconsciousness, the more the distinction blurred. Their fates would be cruel, no matter what he envisioned for them. Tossing and turning, Thranduil fell deeper and deeper into the darkness. Whispered apologies on his lips, he waited for Sauron to come for him.


	6. Dear Insanity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song is 'Dear Insanity' by Asking Alexandria. Hope you enjoy! :) 
> 
> tws: violence, mental breakdown/bit of panic

_Oh sweet insanity  
_ _You take my hand and walk me out into the dark_   
_We walk this road for hours and hours_   
_To the white hills, and the oceans_

The veiled remnants of sunshine trickled through underneath the door for the sixth time when it creaked open and Thranduil started, shaking out of his fever dream. A grunt echoed through the empty chamber and an orc with bared metal-set teeth came in. He carried a curved blade which he pointed at Thranduil’s chest as he set down a clay mug, halfway between the door and the cod. Thranduil rose from his spot, eager to bath in the short burst of sunlight, to look upon anything but darkness and the thin ghost of warmth that had taunted him all this time, but the orc roared and thrust his blade forward.

The days of starvation had done little to nag at Thranduil’s strength, but he shivered with dried sweat and his tongue was scratchy and heavy in his mouth, as though he'd swallowed a handful of flour. Even if he killed this orc, there were bound to be several hundred more between him and the gates to freedom.

“Drink,” the orc grunted and left again, the door crashing shut with a severe finality. Thranduil waited for the metallic footsteps to fade out before he grabbed the mug and held it close to his chest. It smelled stale, nothing more, but he couldn’t discard the possibility that it was poisoned. He'd rather chance dehydration than die under cramps, his mouth foaming as he spilled all his realms’ secrets to their greatest enemy.

“Forgive me, ion nîn,” he croaked and discarded the mug, threw it into the far corner where the half-eaten animals still withered away and which he had used to relieve himself. The stench burned, the acidic undertones harsh against the back of his throat. He might not have given Legolas a promise, but it still felt horrible to surrender like this. Knowing the Necromancer, diplomacy would not get him far. He was bound to waste away in this cursed little hell, driven mad by thirst and regrets.

Dust whipped at his cheeks, then, and the air was filled once more with the strange presence, the darkness turned into all-swallowing void around Thranduil. He could taste ashy, hot anger on the air.

“I know you are here,” Thranduil croaked, his throat scratchy and aching from misuse and dryness. “Tell me what I must do to protect my kingdom.”

No reply came, but the darkness thickened until he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer lest it destroy them. Something tickled his lips, a buzzing like a swarm of insects and he clapped a hand over his mouth.

_Hallucinations_ , Thranduil thought and desperately tried to get air through his stuffed nostrils, to thread his sanity back together under the constant pressure of the presence around him, against his chest. His fingers fell away.

“What do you want of me?” he asked. Gradually, the sensation faded and Thranduil moaned in relief as the sliver of light returned, the wood of the door a clear outline. Maybe discarding the drink had been a bad idea. If his senses already failed him, he was weaker than he’d thought. Or he’d been poisoned after all. Oh, what he would give for a cup of Dorwinion to dull the aches of loneliness and imminent, slow decay. Reduce his conscious thought to ancient songs of wonder and dream himself back to Doriath, where everything had been well. But it was another memory that haunted him instead.

_You’ve overestimated your abilities, Thranduil._

The voice of his father, proud and strong even in the face of death, echoed through his head and he curled up on his dirty bed, trying to block out the smell of his own panic sweat, the lingering fumes of whoever had lived here before him.

_I know, ada_ , Thranduil thought. _But you will take care of it for me, won’t you? You will take care of me?_

_Not this time_ , Oropher had said and risen from his crouch over Thranduil’s maimed body. Thranduil pressed his eyes shut to expel the vision, he had relived this moment countless times, why here, why now. The last comfort he had, Legolas’ continued safety. Thranduil might not be as good of a father as his own had been, but he would die in the same manner, in protection of his son and everything he held dear. The tears did not surprise him, but when they came, he shook with a vengeance.

Thranduil lost track of time, but when the door opened next, it felt like barely any had passed. His sobs came in bursts and so, as the footsteps neared, his eyes were still wet, or wet again, who could tell in this Valar-forsaken place. Thranduil didn't turn, didn't want to break the fragile cocoon of self-pity he had woven about himself as the only barrier between him and cruel reality. Not even the promise of daylight could get his heart to pick up a normal pace.

A hand on his shoulder roughly turned him around, sharp fingernails tearing the worn velvet and the skin underneath.

“Now, drink,” the orc grunted in fragmented Sindarin, saliva dribbling down his chin, and with the leverage he had on Thranduil’s flesh, he pulled him into an upright position. Shoved another cup of liquid into his swollen hands and left. Thranduil hung his head, but his teeth were clenched. No drop of whatever this was would trespass his lips. He waited for the tell-tale click of the lock, but to his surprise, the door remained open and more footsteps approached, accompanied by sharp insults. It took Thranduil a long minute to comprehend that they were in his own tongue. More yet, they were as familiar as the rings that usually sat on his fingers and he had almost missed them as much.

“Filthy, godless abominations. May Ulmo drown you all and if you have harmed my king, I will cut off your-“

Feren stumbled into the little cell, his hands bound behind his back. Against all Thranduil’s apprehensions, he looked as well as might be expected. His long hazel hair was matted with blood, too dark to be his own, and a purple bruise ran down the side of his neck, but other than that he looked unharmed. Feren straightened at the sight of his king, jerking his arm instinctively toward his chest, but the chains on his wrists cut the motion off. The orc behind him thumped him in the back.

“Mylord,” he said, and stumbled into the cell. The door fell shut this time, but it hardly mattered.

Thranduil blinked up at him. His lungs worked, sluggishly at first. Then, something in his chest burst back to life and he set aside the cup. Rose. His knee hissed in protest but complied.

“My friend,” he rasped, placing his hand on Feren’s shoulder. “I had not dared to hope.”

“Neither had I. What of the others?”

“I had trusted Tauriel to find you and come back for me but have heard nothing. What have they done to you?”

“I was pulled to the shadows by a horde of goblins and beaten unconscious, mylord,” Feren explained. “Next thing I know they drag me here.”

“Oh, thank the Valar,” Thranduil said. In the grand scheme of his nightmares, dispelling one did not matter much, but it was a momentary comfort to see Feren relatively unharmed. To not be alone for once. “Come now, sit. Let me try to release you of these shackles.”

They settled onto the cod, Feren with his back to Thranduil and Thranduil ranhis fingers over the chains. The metal was cold against his fingertips and numbed them down. He murmured an old Quenyan rhyme under his breath and tried to extend some of his feä into his hands to unlock the mechanism but was met with a solid wall. Enchanted then. Not beyond his powers usually, but he was unwell and unsettled.

“How long has it been?” Feren asked.

“A fortnight, by my estimate,” Thranduil replied, though his estimate seemed doubtful, given the state of his psyche. It was at least that. “I cannot break these chains by power of will, and I have not the necessary tools to do so by craft. Forgive me.”

“Could you break them open with physical force?”

“Uncertain. Not without breaking your wrists. There is nothing to properly set them here, but old bones and I would not trust them to be untainted.”

“Do it,” Feren hissed. “What use am I bound?”

_What use are you broken_ , Thranduil thought and cast the notion aside. Feren had as much of a right to fight the way he believed the best as any of them. Thranduil got to his feet.

“On your knees,” he said. Feren complied, moving to the center of the room which seemed even smaller, crowded now that there were two of them. Thranduil thought Feren’s mental presence to be a comfort, a voice to answer his calls in the darkness, but his physical form herded Thranduil in with shivering waves of claustrophobic panic. He stood behind Feren, one hand braced against the wall to steady himself should his knee flare up again, and raised his good leg.

“Lean back a little, hands on the ground.” Channeling his power there, not for magical purposes but so as not break his own bones, Thranduil brought his foot down as hard as possible. There was a nasty crunch as Feren’s wrists shattered and the elf winced in pain.

“Thank you, my king,” Feren muttered and brought his hands to his chest. With quick-fingered efficiency, Thranduil tore strips of the filthy cotton bedding and went scouring for bones long enough to support Feren’s wrists. He came up with four, there might have been more, remnants of the animal still attached to them, but he wanted to spare Feren the horror of that. He set to work with what he had. There was not enough gentleness with bones this fragmented and Feren gasped and bit back cries as Thranduil carefully stabilized what was left of the bone. The wrist between his fingers felt liquid on the inside.

_Oh, Eru, what have I done?_ He thought. _I must be further beyond sanity than I had conceived_. But Feren kept muttering his gratitude under his breath and he’d had worse injuries in the past.

By the time he was back on the ground, Thranduil’s whole left leg throbbed again and his breath came in hollow puffs. Feren grunted, as he settled himself beside his king. It was a long time, hours maybe, before he spoke again.

“What happened after I disappeared?”

“They took Elros and I, like I said, sent Tauriel after the three of you. I don’t think she got very far however.”

“Manwë save us all,” Feren whispered. “What of your wellbeing? Are you hurt? Have they provided you with nourishment at all?”

“Only this,” Thranduil said and pointed at the cup which was faintly visible against the wall.

“Water?”

“It is some sort of liquid. They want me to drink it at any rate, but I will not chance poison, not with what’s at stake.”

“Mylord, you must be going insane with thirst. Let me test it for you.”

Thranduil shook his head.

“Please. Someone has to make it out of here alive. I am expendable, no one back home would mourn my loss. If my last deed in life is to preserve your life than I beg of you, my king, let me do it.”

“What has gotten into you? Do I seem so wasted to you that I am before death’s door? I never knew you to be reckless, Feren. Either we get out of here together or not at all and that is an order.” No more lives lost at his expense, no. Thranduil couldn’t bear it. These words, though heartfelt, did more to pierce his resolve than to strengthen it. Who was he to let people kill themselves for him? Was it not his duty to be the one with his head on the block while the others thrived?

“Could have worked,” Feren muttered under his breath and Thranduil blinked.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing, mylord. Are you quite certain you are well?”

“Quite.” And he turned away from Feren, curling once more into the wall. The hard, cold stone against his cheek familiar now, the only physical anchor he had left. His mind was unravelling, he could feel it. He was so thirsty. At least Legolas was still fine. Still fine. Still.


	7. Nihilist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters because why not- Song is 'Nihilist' by Architects, one of my favorite songs of all time. Hope you enjoy! 
> 
> I want to apologize to all Mandos and Noldor fans out there in advance, but what can I say, Thranduil is just bitter. :D
> 
> Tws: violence (, heresy)

_We are beggars  
We are so fucking weak  
And once upon a time we had the world at our feet  
Well, we're all dying to meet our maker  
But all our Gods have abandoned us_

“I meant no offense, you must know that,” Feren said after a while, his timid voice barely substantial enough to fill the space. Thranduil had forgotten about him, too focused on his torn lips, his dry tongue. He could lie to Feren all he wanted, but the thirst had started to consume him. The cup mocked him from where it sat, promising relief, sweet water fresh out of the spring rather than a spoilt well, somewhere deep inside a tyrant’s stronghold. Thranduil wouldn't drink, didn't want to succumb to the agony of poison. Especially not now that there was someone to witness his downfall.

“I know.”

“You must drink, mylord.”

“You will shut up.”

“My apologies,” Feren muttered feebly. Thranduil’s chest ached. “It’s just…”

“You cannot bear more loss. You miss him, I understand.”

“I do miss him. Terribly. It is like a part of me has been ripped away and has died with him. Suddenly Mandos does not seem like such a faraway prospect.”

“I would not trust that you meet him again,” Thranduil said bitterly, swallowing around the dryness. It only made things worse, but the conversation kept his mind off the problem. “I would not trust in the myth of rebirth if I saw it with my own eyes.”

“Really?” Feren sounded suddenly animated, and Thranduil looked at him, though there was not enough light to make out his expression. A glance at the door told him that soon, night would be upon them once more. His eyes were closed. “The thought comforts me and, surely, the tales of Beren and Luthien must dispel your doubts.”

“Luthien was no ordinary Elda,” Thranduil said and tried to shove the memories away. Once upon a time, he had loved Luthien like a sister. Which was exactly why he would never go ahead and give his heart to a mortal, an invitation to destroy. They might have been happy for a while, but their ending amounted to the same thing as any relationship among humans. Their legacy to a distant cold light in the night sky. Half-breed children who had to be raised by traitorous Noldorin filth. No, Thranduil wanted no part of a tragedy even half as monstrous as that. He had had his fair share.

“Why do you doubt Mandos?”

“Because it is a fairy tale to soothe the minds of those who cannot comprehend that life has an end when immortality is their birthright. No one has ever returned from there. Luthien’s spirit cannot be destroyed because she is part Maia, but the same is not true for us. If the Valar have the power to retain our feä, why not restore us to life immediately? Shorten our time confined to darkness and ease the suffering of those left behind? Simple. They cannot. The world is not going to be remade, we will not all meet our loved ones on the shores of Arda again and rejoice in song and have our happily ever after. It’s a ridiculous notion.” Thranduil let the darkness in his heart fester as it would. The words came by themselves, spilled forth as cruelly and evil as those of the Black Speech had. He was sorry to disenchant Feren in such a rough manner, but all his filters had been shriveled along with the insides of his mouth. If only he could take one little sip. But no, no risks.

“Mylord,” Feren gasped softly. “Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive.” Thranduil should apologize, really, but with time steadily trickling by it was easy to forget where he was. Who he was. If it had not been for the other three, still out there somewhere at the whims of Sauron and his beasts, he would have felt at ease to rest. There was no way out of this. Not for him anyway.

“Do you miss them still?”

Thranduil did not reply. What was he to say? There were as many answers to this question as there were people he had lost, and this was neither the time nor the place to conjure them. Oropher came willingly to his mind and often, with words of comfort or disappointment, but the others were shards of broken glass inside of him. They would scrape and tear him apart. Feren would never understand.

“I realize it has been some time, but losses as harsh as yours cannot easily heal. How did you manage it?”

He had asked his father a similar thing, once upon a time. Thranduil could not for the life of him remember, what Oropher had said. He himself had no comfort to offer and so he lashed out, struck back.

“Since when have you become so interested in my personal dealings?”

“I am overwhelmed with my grief and fear for our people, I merely sought out your advice on how to deal with it, seeing as you have trodden this path before.”

_I have no advice for you_ , Thranduil thought. _I never managed it. I press on._

“You should sleep,” he said instead. He never knew if Feren did.

Thranduil dreamt of being trapped in a vast, underground hall. Statues stared down at him from all sides, their weapons pointed to the middle of the room where he sat on the dry earth, bare and shivering. His legs ached from the efforts behind him. Thirty times he had traversed this palace of silver embellishments and cob-webbed corridors and thirty times he had concluded that there was no one here. The god of death came to him and cursed him, taking from him the ability to speak. Only it was not Mandos grinning down at him with madness in his heart, no. It was Sauron who cackled and jeered. As he walked away, wolves spilled into the hall. Hungry for his blood.

When he woke, Thranduil wasn’t so sure it had been a dream at all. Feren lay curled up and motionless by his side and when Thranduil wanted to wake him to check his wrists, his vocal cords produced no sound. His lips were pulled taut over his teeth and he could feel the wasted side of his face, molten muscle straining against his bones. Valar, but he needed water. The cup was still there, still full. Thranduil aimed a kick at it and its contents spilled across the room, the low clunk startling Feren awake.

Not a minute later, the door banged open. Three snorting orcs came forth, one restrained Feren, one picked Thranduil up by the neck and pressed him against the wall. His skull collided with rock, jamming his teeth together. The world whirled. The orcs’ faces blurred into a twisted mass of gray and black and red. The third orc forced open his jaw and poured something into his mouth while keeping a tight grip on his hair. Jerking hard on it when he stopped to pour.

“Swallow,” the orc barked, his breath steamy and foul against Thranduil’s cheek. Thranduil complied. It tasted like rainwater that had sat too long, already mossy with age, but poison could be disguised, and he knew there was no guarantee. He did not look at Feren as they filled his mouth again. And again. Thranduil’s heart pounded and every muscle in his body had tensed up at the prospect of imminent convulsion. It seemed to be a slow poison.

When they were done with him, the orc holding him pulled Thranduil a foot or so away from the wall, then slammed him back into it. Another impact blacked out his vision completely. His head lulled to the side. Then he was let go, fell. Hit the ground, sprawled out like a limp puppet. Tasting blood. Tasting his defeat.

Feren was on him within seconds, dragged him upright and searched his face for wounds, the back of his head. Long fingers dragged against Thranduil’s scalp. He thought he could see the night sky in Feren’s eyes. And then realization hit him, knocking the last bit of air out of his lungs.

“Your hands. I only just set them,” Thranduil gasped and stared down at Feren’s wrists. No bones to hold them, no distortion to imply injury.

“Mylord,” Feren said, grasping the front of Thranduil’s filthy tunic without any sign of discomfort. Panic wound through his next words like a snake through the undergrowth: “You are mistaken. A week has passed since then.” 


	8. Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Memories' by Bury Tomorrow, another excellent song! Things are getting exciting now, hope you enjoy! :) 
> 
> tws: violence, suicidal thoughts

_Reveal the plan you have for me  
Now I'm lost  
Wandering endlessly  
I hear  
I hear their cries to me  
Dragging me backwards eternally  
Are you intent on returning me?  
To the life I left so violently_

“It cannot be,” Thranduil said. A week? Had he spent that long in the palace in his head, searching for something, anything to hold onto as he tried to climb out of this hole? Impossible. “I only nodded off for a few hours.”

“No, mylord I swear it.”

He was about to reply when a wave of nausea hit him. The water had woken something terrible in his stomach. Worse than poison could. Hunger gnawed at his insides. A new ailment for the orcs to come curing. 

“Are you certain?” Thranduil asked, and absentmindedly rubbed his stomach.

“Would I lie to you?” Feren asked, leaning back. “I have watched the cycles of the sun from the meager strip of light. Seven times the sun has gone down since you fell unconscious. You talked in your sleep.”

“About what?”

“Your father, mostly.”

A recurring theme, it seemed. Thranduil closed his eyes and tried to conjure the picture of his father, but it was blotchy around the edges. Broad shoulders wavering, his ringed fingers a blur against his chest which was covered in burgundy. Golden curls fell almost to his elbows and what would Thranduil give to run his fingers through them one last time. Eyes like a molten sunset and an easy smile full of wisdom and regality. Thranduil opened his eyes again and the image dispelled, replaced by Feren’s shadowed form. Rotten hate raged in his bloodstream. How dare Feren speak of him? How dare he be here when Oropher was not? It was irrational, but it felt right. To have been robbed like Thranduil had. No one would ever understand.

“What of him?” Thranduil snapped.

“It seemed to me idle conversation, nothing of import. Like you hallucinated him being here.”

Thranduil let that hang between them, let Feren make of it what he would. He was too tired, even though he had apparently slept for an entire week, and his stomach growled, filling the space with an ominous noise. Almost a threat.

“Are you hungry, mylord?”

“I am fine.” Silence. Brick by brick, a wall was built between them, Thranduil could feel it in the uncomfortable shift in Feren’s posture, the soft intakes of breath that meant he wanted to say something but didn’t dare. Thranduil had no words of comfort to give and already, he slipped back into an apathetic doze. He would rest and then they would come up with a strategy. Get out ere their bond broke.

There was no indication of day yet, when heavy footsteps approached once more, jerking him awake. The door flew open, the same three orcs as before, and Thranduil wondered briefly if, after all this abuse, he could not unhinge it, break it down, once madness returned. But that would lead him nowhere. Sauron would know and even if he didn’t, Thranduil had no weapon, no will.

“Not you again,” Feren cried out and moved between the orcs and Thranduil, valiant, but pointless as an orc seized him by the throat and held him, half-suspended in the air so that he gasped and coughed. The other two were tense, ready to pounce at Thranduil.

“More water?” he asked, his voice cracking on the last syllable.

“No. The master informs us that it is the time for you to be hungry. Eat.” The orc shoved a bowl into Thranduil’s hands. Something indiscernible floated at the bottom of a dingy soup and it smelled like horse shit.

“And my servant?”

“None for him.”

“I won’t eat if you don’t feed him as well,” Thranduil said though he would not wish this poor imitation of a broth on anyone. His stomach could not decide if it wanted to curl in disgust or purr in the face of nourishment.

“If you don’t eat it,” the orc that held Feren grunted and pressed a dagger against Feren’s backside. “He dies.”

Thranduil put the bowl to his lips and drank. It was all he could to not to spit it out instantly. The soup was beyond savory, the tiny withered bits of meat overly salted. Whatever poor creature this had been. Thranduil gagged on the next gulp, but the orcs growled at him and Feren’s struggle for breath grew more urgent with every second that went by. If Thranduil couldn’t even have a simple meal to save his subjects, well. Maybe the Woodland Realm was better off with Legolas on the throne.

Once the bowl was empty, one of his captors gave Thranduil a harsh slap across his good cheek.

“We will know if you don’t keep it down.”

The third orc cast Feren down before Thranduil’s knees and left with the other two. The taste of salt and mold lingered on Thranduil’s tongue and he wiped at his mouth.

“That was the most revolting thing I have ever eaten. You can rejoice at your starvation. Any amount of famine is better than this.”

Feren gave a stifled gurgle and something wet and sticky hit Thranduil’s face. Before he could ask after the other elf’s well-being, Feren slumped, collapsing onto Thranduil’s lap. Blood soaked through Thranduil’s breeches. The certainty of his guard’s death hit him like a blow to the gut. No need to check for a pulse when Thranduil had lost his sense of Feren’s feä. Dead, just like that.

“No,” he said and felt the soup rise in his throat. Employed his every reserve to keep it down. His hands roamed over Feren’s body and came to rest on the crude handle of a dagger that stuck out of Feren’s backside. Thranduil cried silently and stroked Feren’s hair. There would be no funeral for him, no choir or pyre and no waves of blossoms to carry him home. Dead, without sense or consequence.

Gone.

When his tears dried out, Thranduil lay Feren’s body out in the middle of their cell, hands folded on his chest. He pressed a wet kiss to Feren’s forehead and muttered a quick prayer, to whomever would listen.

“Farewell, my friend,” he said. Retreated to his corner, another part of him broken away. Back to the shadows, all alone. All alone, yes. But not forever.

In the days – nights, weeks, months? – that followed, Thranduil became paralyzed. He ate when asked to, he drank when given water, had to with the chance of Tauriel and Lymerien still alive. With Elros still holding out somewhere. But otherwise, he sat, his face pressed to the same spot of wall, the dark aura that inhabited the crevices of this place seeping through his ruined skin. He could feel the darkness that festered inside his heart like a physical parasite. It took his legs first until he could no longer feel them. His fingers grew numb and his stomach turned to ice. All that was left for him to do was to think. With his body slowed down to absolute stillness, Thranduil’s brain reeled. Had him relive memories inconsequential, and long passed only for the stab of melancholy. Had him illustrate every perspective from which he had failed. Had him see all the future’s he had ruined. On and on it went, in circles or spirals or jumbled tangles of fragmented pictures that made him dizzy. All to the tune of a Lament for Beleriand, a song that had him curled up on the ground with violent sobs for all that it reminded him of. Home, lost. King, gone. Mother, dead. On and on.

When he did want to channel his thoughts, feel something, if only a spark, he talked to Feren.

“I wish I had known Ethuil better,” Thranduil said, his eyes distant and watery with the echo of the funeral pyre. “I wish I had sung for him.”

“I would have given my life if it meant you could walk free,” Thranduil said, and cried.

“I hope you can find the rest you seek. Do not begrudge me my taking you here,” Thranduil said, without a voice.

“I am sorry,” Thranduil said. 

Sometimes he babbled on for longs hours on end, sometimes his throat gave out before he could form one coherent sentence. Feren never replied. Sauron did.

“You weren’t this talkative before,” he said, his voice low and melodic, jerking Thranduil out of his trance. The moment of truth had come. He had bided his time, had endured all that had been thrown at him. Now to see whether there was a shot at salvation, or all had been lost before he’d ever set foot into this realm out of time. Thranduil hummed.

“Well met, Gorthaur. What brings you to this mine humble dwelling?”

There it was again. The darkness multiplied, filled with hatred and hot rage until Thranduil was encompassed by it. Not a product of his imagination this time, but a real, incorporeal though it may be.

“I could not stand your sorry wailing any longer.”

“Then don’t listen.”

Laughter, like clanging chimes, spelled the downfall of the world.

“Hardly a choice. Better to make you shut up.”

“And how will you achieve that? You have already tortured me. I will not break,” Thranduil said, an outright lie that he had to press through his teeth. He understood what he had endured until now wasn’t even a taste of the true measure of Sauron’s capacity at torture. Not for nothing did his people call him the Cruel. The Abhorred.

“My, my, a tough one. Let me try my hands at diplomacy then. I offer you and your people freedom. Join me,” Sauron said simply. “Let us watch the world burn, its head bowed before our greatness.”

“And what does that entail? To crawl at your feet and call you master?” It had come to this at last. Either Thranduil bartered away his crown for slavery, disguised as mercy, or he doomed himself. Tauriel. Lymerien. Elros. Their names a mantra to keep him tethered to reality.

“Please, little eglath, these aren't the days of the Trees anymore. I’m sure you can come up with something more… creative.”

“Then why do you call me that?” An echo of a pain long since gone, a name his people had born like a band of mourning around their wrists.Thranduil hadn't been born yet, in those long twilight days when their king had disappeared, but his father had told him of it, and often. Like the loss of a limb, never quite grown back even when he returned. Reborn. Oropher’s credo had always echoed this: you never abandon your people for matters of the heart. Thranduil had adhered to that, always, but the cost was nearly unbearable.

“Because that is what you are,” Sauron hissed, and his voice scraped against Thranduil’s eardrums once more, his presence a harsh pressure against Thranduil’s ribs. Bearing down, squeezing the breath out of him. His eyes fell shut. “Forsaken. Lost. By yourself.”

“You call this diplomacy?” Thranduil panted, biting his lip. It split, copper on his tongue. The pain blinded him, but it was good to feel something, have a physical sensation to show him that he was still there. Still alive. 

“You would have me treat with you as befitting of your station, that is what you said on your first day here, remember?”

“Yes,” he choked.

“Is that still your wish?”

“Naturally.”

“And what are you, but an Ambassador of Separation and Sorrow? What have you achieved that warrants my respect?”

Thranduil could not find his voice among the cries in his head. _Make it stop. Please._

“ANSWER ME,” Sauron screamed and with a crack, Thranduil’s first rib gave in. The second followed suit.

“Nothing,” he said. Finally, Sauron retracted, enough so that Thranduil could feel his skin again, the sharp pain in his side.

“Exactly. So, you see, little eglath, I can treat you however I like.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Earn it.” Then he was gone, like a candle being snuffed out, so Sauron’s feä disappeared. The orcs brought another bowl of stale, lukewarm broth. Through their legs, Thranduil got a glimpse of a low-hanging sunset, colors he had almost forgotten about. Oranges and pinks and scarlets. He remembered another funeral, another king with flowers in his hair.

_Tonight, we say farewell to a queen, a mother, a wife…_

The tears ran silently down his cheeks as the orcs left again, as the door closed on the outside world, the sun, the memory of his father’s solemn face. For the first time in his captivity Thranduil thought to shatter the bowl in his hands and utilize the shards to put an early end to this whole ordeal. Sauron wanted him, to hand over his kingdom, to have leverage against Legolas. Thranduil had the power to take that away from him.

_Why do you stay?_

_You never abandon your people for matters of the heart, Thranduil_. Warm arms that held him close as he mourned his mother. _We are better than that._

_Not even to see the Blessed Realm? Not even for a chance to see her again?_

_Not even then._

Thranduil ate his soup. Discarded the bowl and went back to his newly found natural position. From the outside, he was a statue, the perfect picture of surrender. But he would persevere, and once Sauron offered him a weak spot, Thranduil would be ready. Whatever the cost.


	9. Drown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Drown' by Bring Me The Horizon. Such a painful song. Hope y'all enjoy the chapter!
> 
> TWs: hallucinations, self-harm, suicidal thoughts and allusions, violence, manipulation, torture

_It comes in waves, I close my eyes  
Hold my breath and let it bury me  
I'm not OK and it's not all right  
Won't you drag the lake and bring me home again_

Sauron came back in irregular intervals, sometimes to drown Thranduil in snow white pain like a thousand stars that crashed down upon his chest, their spikes tearing through his earthly body. Ripped open as such, he would forget the existence of all else.

Sometimes to drone on endlessly about the fate of the world and the plans he harbored for it.

Sometimes Sauron hovered in his little cell, gave off no sound as Thranduil screamed at him, cursed his name and the day he’d been made.

Sometimes, he didn’t come at all, a whisper of Thranduil’s own imagination.

Thranduil never knew when to expect an assault, physical or verbal, and it was mostly when he waned himself secure, that a deep singsong popped out of nowhere to taunt him. Sauron kept to his stupid nickname, among others. Thranduil’s patience was beyond threadbare as he was reduced to a constant trembling, in fear, in anticipation of having someone to talk to, in an attempt not to hyperventilate, in strain against the urge to carve himself open. Not that Sauron would let him, as Thranduil had found out in one of his darker moments.

At least a month had passed, if not more, since Thranduil’s arrival in Dol Guldur. He harbored no hope for his guard anymore though he still clung to their names in lesser moments of sanity.

“Tauriel,” he whispered into the void of his world when the night was its deepest and the toxin-laden air of the place nibbled at his skin.

“Lymerien,” he cried out when his nightmares were no longer separable from reality and he awoke to Oropher’s face, burned down to the bones, hand clasped around a molten sword.

“Elros,” he mouthed as his lungs collapsed. And always, Sauron healed him just enough that death was no concern.

“Legolas,” he gasped when all other thought was taken from him.

Oh, Legolas. The young prince must think him perished and life in the Woodland Realm would have gone on as usual. Or maybe Sauron had launched an attack already and his throne disintegrated as he lay there, useless. Naught but ashes to welcome him home.

“No,” a silky voice crooned right into his ear. “Not quite yet. But I may be tempted if you keep crying for your friends.” Sauron’s spirit was a gentle, warm pressure on Thranduil’s throat, almost like the physical contact of another person. Thranduil could no longer discern the twistedness of that feä, had lost his sense for the evil, the mischievous, the wrong. Only the objective knowledge of Sauron’s past deeds to remind himself that this was the Great Enemy. Disgust was hard to come by when Thranduil was as filthy as any orc in this place.

“Oh, Elbereth, release me” Thranduil said and the touch withdrew. A sharp icy pain hammered down onto the place where it had been before. Struggling for breath, Thranduil curled in on himself, but the source of the pain was not physical, and he couldn’t block it out, weakened as he was.

“We do not utter that name in these halls,” Sauron hissed, and sparks briefly illuminated the space. “Do not linger under the illusion that that bitch will listen when you call her name. She never has.”

“She must have.” The pain ceased; the light extinguished. The caress returned, like feathers against Thranduil’s tear-stained cheeks.

“You poor fool. Has any prayer of yours ever been answered?”

Thranduil strained his mind. Elbereth, Varda as she was called among her own, had been a guide to him all his life. When he was desperate, he clung to her name as though it was the only thing to keep him upright. Prayed for her to protect his home. Invoked her to save his father. Begged her to send his wife back to him. Asked her to be the mother Legolas had never had. He shook with the effort to recall all that she had not fixed.

“You see?” Sauron said. “She has never been there for you, has she? You pray to a version of her that never existed. The Varda I knew was vain and cared not for the fate of the world and its children. She sits on her mountain, indulging in arrogance and laziness. Her light is cold and far away. What kind of love is that?” Warmth, a soft blanket, a tame flame, steaming water encompassed Thranduil and he stopped shivering. It was glorious, to be warm for once, after endless nights of cold with naught more to keep him alive, but his own determination. To be comfortable.

“My light is warm,” Sauron murmured softly. Somewhere, buried deep under a thicket of pleasure, Thranduil knew he should not let go. Should stay awake and expel the darkness that seeped under his skin. He had not the strength though. It was too cozy, too much of a relief. “And I am here.” Thranduil hummed and drifted off. His sleep was dreamless.

…

“What of Dale?” Thranduil whispered into the darkness. It had felt empty and cold in his cell, like he was the only creature in all Eä, but of course, Sauron heard. A part of him was always with Thranduil in these lonely hours.

“What of it?” he asked, curling over Thranduil’s bare leg where his breeches had ripped open under the mishandlings of the orcs. Things had gotten worse over the last few days, and there had been several occasions where he had to be force-fed.

“If I was to agree to your terms, what would happen to Dale?” Thranduil shivered. His muscles were tired, aching from constant tension, and still he couldn’t relax. Bard had not been on his mind much for the sorrow his face brought him. If only he had allowed one kiss, one night, one moonlit confession. In retrospect, it would have done no harm and Thranduil might have been grieved as a loved one rather than that one, cold king who had broken Bard’s heart.

“Meet its fate, as is proper and right. I am no dragon, but my fires burn brightly, and they will spread. Make ashen corpses of the people of Dale and roast out that mountain. Or would you prefer to slay the humans yourself? I’d gladly bestow that honor upon you, o king of nothing. Then, at last, you may pronounce yourself accomplished.”

“I would prefer for you to spare them. There are other ways to entreat the humans into submission. Have them fight under your banner.” It was a total bluff. Bard would kill his every subject himself before he let them fall into the hands of orcs which was admirable and well and something Thranduil could never bring over himself. It was the sort of unconditional compassion he’d always strive towards and never achieve for his cowardly heart.

Sauron hesitated, probing inside of Thranduil’s head. He let the invasion happen as it was wont to do. And he was unsurprised at the words the spirit uttered next: 

“You would give your heart to a human?”

“I would withhold it for both our sakes,” Thranduil said and his throat constricted painfully. Bitter, agonizing regret manifested.

“But he has your love?”

“Yes.” And when no reply came: “Are you still there?”

“I confess myself appalled and… disappointed. What virtue is there in men? Take your filthy little Dale rat for example. He bears the names Dragonslayer and King to veil his true lack of power. I have heard him, and his subjects talk amongst themselves when they think no one listens. They mean to usurp your kingdom. How can you love such a man?”

“You also mean to usurp my kingdom.”

“No, Thranduil dearest, you misunderstand.” Thranduil closed his eyes as the spirit ghosted over his cheeks and down his neck. He swallowed heavily, knowing not whether this feeling was pleasant or not. Something inside of him stirred at the touch, having long been forsaken by love. He had not the energy to resist, nor did the realization that this was Sauron touching him, Sauron lulling him into a false sense of security, come easily.

“Enlighten me,” Thranduil said and sank back onto his sorry cod with closed eyes. Invisible hands pressed against his palms. When Sauron replied, his voice sounded in Thranduil’s head rather than outside of it.

“I mean to raise you to greatness,” Sauron murmured. “Once you have been cleansed.”

Thranduil screamed before he knew what was happening. Pain crashed over and around him like an avalanche of fire. His skin sizzled, his insides burned away. His guts liquefied, his lungs torn to shreds under the pressure of the heat. When he screamed again, sparks flew from his lips. He saw only red and orange. It was exactly like that day on the battlefields of Dagorlad. Only that this fire burned fiercer, more relentless than even that of dragons. Thranduil’s tears of pain hissed away before they could fall. He had to save his father, he was suffocating, he was dying, he was-

The pain stopped as suddenly as it had come and after Thranduil had gulped in enough air to function, he found himself unmarred. He touched a hand to his cheek and was surprised to find it the same, badly healed scar tissue. Association had led him to believe it was a fresh wound. This was a prime example of Sauron’s power, to inflict torture without damage.

“Renounce your affections for the human,” Sauron said through Thranduil’s mouth. It did not feel strange anymore, to share his head with another. But that did not mean he agreed with Sauron. They were still enemies.

“No,” Thranduil said resolutely. He thought of Bard again, with his hopeful confessions and his heavy crown. Another burst of the same, consuming fire erupted inside of him. Thranduil could barely smell the stench of burnt hair before his nostrils withered and melted shut. He screamed, then he whimpered, then he stilled. His vocal cords, too, were gone.

_Let him have me_ , he thought. _Let this be my final moment_. Laughter wove among the crackling of the flames.

“I will not let you pass on. I will burn the desire out of you until you can only look upon him with murderous intent. I will show you what it feels like to love a mortal.”

Sauron was relentless. 

Thranduil tried to cling to the affection he felt when he thought of Bard, to remember the why’s and how’s of his love, even the painful ones, but each time Bard’s face flashed across his memories, each time his soothing voice promised relief, the pain got worse. There was no getting used to it, only to stand it. Sauron hissed and raged, and cackled and mocked until, at last, Thranduil’s heart shied away from his longing. And still Sauron pressed on. It was never ending agony until it did end, leaving resentment in its wake _._

_This is what I suffer for your love_ , Thranduil thought, _this is the price I pay_. If only Bard could hear him.

…

“Do you give up yet?”

“No.”

“What if I bring your son here and rip his throat out before your very eyes. Would you surrender then?”

“No.”

“And what if I spared Dale and their disgusting king. What if I let you keep him as a toy? There are ways to prolong his life.”

“No.”

“I could also bring back your useless cockroach of a father, restore him to his full glory, exactly as you remember him. Down to the very last speck of amber in his eyes.”

“Do you have that power?”

“I might.”

“I still refuse.”

“You could have him back.”

“As your puppet?”

“As your beloved ada.”

“…no.”


	10. Bow Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a day late because I had to work all day yesterday and forgot, but it's here now and the next one will follow swiftly! Thank you for your patience and I hope you enjoy this chapter :) 
> 
> I think Thranduil's wife is a difficult topic with a lot of different headcanons in the fandom. I'm not settled on a particular one, but the way she is presented in this story worked well and I liked writing her like this even though I don't enjoy creating OC's. I would have avoided this altogether, but Legolas had to come from somewhere and better to make something up than to have a 'gaping hole'. Let me know what you think!
> 
> The song is 'Bow Down' by I Prevail.
> 
> Trigger warning for manipulation.

_You will never know, it's the price I pay  
Look into my eyes, we are not the same  
Yeah, this is where you fall apart  
Yeah, this is where you break_

“Your head is increasingly exhausting to be in,” Sauron said once the orcs had brought Thranduil yet another bowl of moldy broth and a mug of stale water. Thranduil had smelt ale on their breaths and had almost begged for some, the faintest stimulant to give him a sense of feeling other than the deep weariness that had carved the marrow out of his bones. He didn’t reply, brought the bowl to his lips with hands that shook, and spilled half its contents down the front of his disintegrated tunic.

“Why you ask? A number of things. You run around in circles, Thranduil. Those pitiful guards of yours, your son, your father, your mother, what a bad king you are, what a disappointment you are, how much you want to die and round it goes. Is there nothing else to give you pain?”

_Is it not enough_ , Thranduil thought, but kept quiet. Sometimes it was best to indulge Sauron. Let him have his little tirade and be off.

“I have given a lot of thought to your narrative,” Sauron continued. “The forever prince who had everything ripped from him but his own son. The cold-hearted king who invests all he has into the protection of what his father built as a sorry tribute. The father who never loved his child as much as he was loved. There is a gaping hole in that, a role that’s missing. Can you tell me what it is?”

“No idea,” Thranduil said. He lapped up the salty remains of his meal and chased them with water. His tastes bud had grown so accustomed to the rainy undertones that it was a refreshment.

“No? Ah well, you cannot always be bright, I suppose. Let me help you out. Among creatures such as yourself it is customary that, should a man want an heir, he would need the womb of a female of his species in order to reproduce. Your thoughts paint Legolas a motherless child. Impossible.”

“If you mean to use his mother against me, you will be hard-pressed for leverage.”

“Tell me, Thranduil, heart of my stronghold, light of my existence, where is she now?” Sauron asked, the sarcasm stark against his words. 

Thranduil remembered his wife’s face as though it been yesterday that she had stood at the edge of the forest, a sad kind of anger playing across her porcelain features, her platinum hair swaying in a summer breeze. Her blue eyes filled with tears. There had been no words of parting, no explanations.

“Dead,” he said. Sauron cackled, and pervaded his bloodstream, travelled along it like poison and its antidote at the same time. Like he was what it took to keep Thranduil alive. It was a rush that hit so hard and fast, it knocked the breath out of Thranduil. Sucked up every bit of sanity he had left. Before long, he was in his head, seeped into his brain matter, filled in its chasms, became the electricity it used to communicate.

Thranduil could feel the pressure inside his skull as Sauron dug around in his thoughts, soring higher and higher until the bone groaned with strain. When Sauron had found the object of his search, Thranduil clenched his teeth. His mind felt melted, like it was about to run out of his ears. The next that the Maia spoke was in Thranduil’s head, his voice colored with strained curiosity.

_You lie to me._

_She is dead._

_You lie to yourself then._

_I have no affections for her._

_It is not affection I seek, Thranduil, you should know that by now._

_... I resent her._

_So, you do. But that is not all._

_No._

_Let me in, my friend. Have I not relieved you when it came to the bowman? Or do you still yearn for him?_

_I don’t._

Thranduil’s clutch on these memories was strong, stronger than he could have accounted for based on the mere sorrow he felt at them, but Sauron was persistent and with each second that passed his grip strengthened as Thranduil’s willpower faded. Why not let him see the extent of his worthlessness? There was nowhere left for him to hide, neither in the spiritual nor the physical realm.

At last, the scene was wrenched from him.

An early summer, the grass under his bare feet vibrant and silky. The thick perfume of flowers coated the inside of his mouth and he drank it all in with a primeval joy that drew jingles of laughter from his lips. Perched on top of the great stag, that trotted beside him as they traversed the gently sauntering plane at the base of Amon Lanc, Legolas who babbled like a spring. The little prince had strayed far from home, but Thranduil always found him.

When they got back to the gates of Oropher’s great capital, gates grown from twisting vines and purple bell-shaped blossoms, she stood before it, her arms crossed. Tauriel was there also, laxly at attention, her eyes closed against the sunshine that painted her the picture of pure bliss. Next to the Silva, his wife looked as pale as the moon and equally as ethereal.

“Again?” she asked, and her voice was icy, thin. Thranduil halted the stag and lifted Legolas off its back, let him sit on his hip and play with his hair. The animal pranced, then ran out of sight.

“Is naneth angry with me?” the boy whispered into Thranduil’s ear, his eyes wide in fright. Thranduil kissed Legolas’ forehead.

“No, little leaf, merely worried,” he whispered back, and Legolas squealed in delight. Threw his tiny arms around Thranduil’s neck and hid against it. Thranduil turned towards her and smiled. “He’s quite the adventurer.”

“Because you indulge him. The two of you are just so flimsy.” She rubbed her forehead. “Can we talk, Thranduil?”

Thranduil had an urge to press Legolas closer to him, but he didn’t want to scare his son. Instead, he placed him in Tauriel’s waiting arms who looked at Thranduil with a raised brow, worry written plainly into the lines of her features. Thranduil shook his head and gestured for them to leave.

“Ada,” Legolas whined.

“Later, love.”

“Will grandfather play with me?”

“No, silly, he is very busy at the moment,” Tauriel said and tickled Legolas. He squealed and wound in laughter. “But I may be persuaded for a round of hide and seek, if that is enough for important royalty such as yourself.”

“I’ll think about it,” Legolas said gravely. Thranduil and Tauriel exchanged a wistful smirk and the two of them walked away.

“She is just a guard,” his wife said, a sour expression on her face. It took away the magical shimmer that lay over her impression and made her look pallid, sickly. She wore a white dress, cut at her ankles and over that a thick cloak of ruby velvet. Too hot for the temperatures that had pressed down on the Greenwood as of late, but she was prone to cold. Thranduil thought to draw her into his arms, but the little curl of her mouth made him reconsider.

“She is my friend,” he replied and without prompting on either side, they fell into step together. Thranduil followed her lead as was the way with these things. “And we owe her a great deal.”

“ _We_ owe her nothing,” she hissed and accelerated, half a step ahead of Thranduil. They left the patches of sky behind for the forest proper, trees that loomed and groaned on all sides, carrying golden leaves that made the whole space glow in an amber light with soft undertones of green. There were butterflies everywhere. They danced to the song of the elves that were out to hunt, to fly, to become the forest. Thranduil saw none of them, but he could feel the joy in their souls on the whispers of the trees. He would have climbed up a tree himself and joined them in their chase, if not for his duties and his heart, storming away from him.

“If this is about Tauriel I can assure you that your worry is misplaced.”

“Please,” she said, nose pointed forward. Away from Thranduil. “Not even you would stoop so low as to lay with a Silvan.”

“Meleth, what is the matter with you?” Thranduil reached for her arm, but she pulled away harshly, whirling around. There was a snarl on her face.

“You are the matter,” she said and pushed at his chest. He caught her wrists, they trembled. She could have torn out of his grip. The fact that she let him touch her, if only in defense, was a minute comfort. It was more than he’d had of her in weeks. “You suffocate me.”

Thranduil didn’t know what to make of that. Her eyes were wild, accusatory. He had to search for his voice in the tangle of his emotions, panic being the chief one.

“I do not understand. You are free to roam as you please, you have no courtly duties as was your wish. I have never asked you to step in on my behalf nor take up weapon if you did not do so of your own accord, and I have born the resulting displeasure of my father all by myself.” What else was there that she could possibly want?

“Of course, but that is not what I mean. It’s your expectations. You may not utter them aloud, but I can feel them in the way you stare at me. I cannot be a doting mother, I cannot be a pretty princess, and I cannot be with you and stand your affections. Not anymore. This place is wretched and it’s killing me.”

“I only ever meant for us to be happy,” Thranduil said carefully. “For you to be happy… I... love you, and so does Legolas.”

Without a reply, she pressed on through the thicket, dodging a bunny that hopped over the barely visible path among the trees. Past a glittering pond and a small meadow of forget-me-nots. Pressed on and Thranduil followed because what else was he to do? He could not force her back and if he had to walk to edge of the continent to get her to want their family again, he would do it. It only took the edge of the forest, though, for her to halt once more.

“Stay,” she said and looked up at him. A sad kind of anger played across her pale features; her platinum hair swayed in the summer breeze. Her blue eyes filled with tears.

“What about you?” Thranduil asked. His throat was tight, and his stomach felt queasy. This was not at all going the right way.

“I am leaving.”

“Where to?”

“Home,” she said. Home before Amon Lanc had been Doriath for them. Home before Doriath had been nowhere and everywhere. They had followed a promise and then they had decided it was not enough. Doriath was no more, but the promise still stood. Thranduil closed his eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath. When he was ready to speak, ready to make his stand, he opened them again and stared into the empty darkness of his prison cell. 

_She left?_

_Yes. I never saw her again._

_Would you want to?_

_She has passed into Valinor and thus I can never go there._

_Let me rephrase it then. Would you want to look upon her as she is now, have a glimpse of the life she leads?_

_How?_

_I have my ways._

_I don’t._

_Ah, but I have already made up my mind._

Thranduil was torn from reality once more, not into his memories, but into a strange scene. A garden that was filled to the brim with life, flowers blossomed in every corner, the trees sang ancient songs in a tongue Thranduil knew not. Birds and bees and butterflies everywhere and among all this, their bare feet grazing grass greener than any Thranduil had seen in his life, walked the Eldar. They sang with the trees or chattered idly, they watered the flower beds and embroidered their likeness onto vibrant linens in all colors known to elven kind and some new. Fireflies buzzed in the shadows and the air smelt thickly of magic, a sweet, incense-like layer that covered everything, coated even Thranduil and Sauron who only stood by in their minds.

_Welcome to the real Lorien_ , Sauron said, putting in no effort to veil his disgust. _A place for the Children to indulge in their laziness and give into the chaos that is a life without purpose. All under the banner of some second grade Vala who obviously has no sense of style._

_It is beautiful._

Thranduil turned towards the gurgling stream to their left where more elves, most of them Vanyar, laughed and played in the water. The water curled around their feet, did their biding.

_Over there_ , Sauron said. Thranduil followed the direction in his mind and found himself at the edge of the stream, right next to her. She lounged on a patch of daisy-strewn grass, her blond hair splayed in an arc around her head. She wore a gown of diamond-studded turquoise that made her eyes stand out starkly against her fair skin. A blush of joy, high atop her cheekbones. Above her, a Noldorin female sat cross-legged on the ground and braided flowers into her hair. They were deep in conversation, but it took a long second for the words to make sense to Thranduil. As though he heard them through a wad of cotton in his ears.

“… I’ve never been there at all,” the Noldor elf said. “I was born on Tuna. How long have you stayed?”

“Well into the Second Age of Sun and Moon,” she answered dreamily. “Though I should have departed much earlier.”

“What was it like?”

“Bleak. Muted. Full of sorrow and death. I do not miss it one bit.”

“Not even your family?”

She glanced up at her companion. Her face was elevated and bright, bearing nothing of the gravity of her last years at Thranduil’s side.

“My family is here,” she said. They both smiled at each other, their hands entwined over her head. It was too much too bear, but Thranduil could not avert his gaze as Sauron was the one who guided the vision. Happiness unfolded on her features as she closed her eyes, softly humming along to the tunes that hung in the air. Her skin glowed in the sunlight and her companion continued to caress her scalp and murmur words under her breath Thranduil couldn’t make out. He wanted to get out of here.

_Please take me back,_ he thought. _Please._

_Does it pain you?_

_Yes._

_She is more alive than she has ever been with you._

_Yes._

_You should hate her._

_I do._

_You should want to burn this place to the ground._

_That is blasphemy._

_Why? They took everything from you. Their servant seduced your king, their wars destroyed your home. They withhold the life of your father and took that of your wife. Renounce them and their power over you before they also take your son. Look at her face._

Thranduil stared and stared and resentment filled him to the brim. She had no right to be happy, not with the carnage she had left behind. Legolas had needed her, Thranduil had needed her. She had cast them aside for what? Lounging by the river, caught in gossip? The lure of this place was poison.

_You’re right. It should burn._

It was as if he had cast a spell, for those words freed him of the horror, the hot red fury, and the vision shattered.

_I have something I want to give to you_ , Sauron drawled once they were back in Dol Guldur, back in the cell, pokey and stiff straw under their backsides. _Something personal to me._

“I don’t want it, whatever it is,” Thranduil managed through his tears, the sobs only just subsiding. He had never wanted to remember her. His heart felt fragmented in his chest, the ripped shards bore into the surrounding flesh. He wanted none of it. He wanted Sauron to stay and go back to his stories of the Music of the Ainur or the Making of Arda. Even the Wars of Beleriand which Thranduil had experienced from the other side would soothe him. One ache to replace the other, but at least the loss of his kindred made sense. Anything, so he could flee from this moment.

_You don’t get a choice, little eglath_ , Sauron said. His voice was harsh, but his hands were gentle as he used his skill as a smith to re-forge Thranduil’s heart bit by bit, until he could breathe again, and his tears were not in agony, but in relief.

“When will you stop calling me that?” he asked weakly.

_When you accept that you are mine and thus have somewhere to belong to. Apropos names,_ Sauron’s feä left Thranduil’s body and it was a harsh loss. His vessel seemed too spacious to occupy by himself and Thranduil whimpered. Immediately, Sauron expanded, lay himself over Thranduil like a silk blanket. Warm. Protective. “Though the names you give me are accurate and dare I say charming, none of them originally belonged to me. Your people called me Gorthaur and Sauron and other, more intimidating things, and in the whirling stream of history my true name got lost. Forgotten.”

“Do you remember it?”

“Of course.”

“You mean to tell me?”

“I mean for you to use it when addressing me. The only other creature alive to know it.”

“What of your master,” Thranduil said bitterly. The one thing he had succeeded in during his captivity was the suppression of all thought and memory of that abhorrent face, that voice like a thunderstorm which had brought down mountain ranges. In his naivety, Thranduil had thought Morgoth banished from his mind. But constant reminders of old times had worn down the walls and with Sauron sharing it, sometimes images stuck. Fragments of a life long past, left for Thranduil to wonder at. He could picture the self-proclaimed King of all Arda perfectly now, felt a pain splitting his skull apart at the depths of his gray eyes. Could count the scars upon his face. Could not rejoice at the sight of three brilliant jewels perched upon his brow. The image dispelled, and Thranduil had no grasp of him anymore.

“He is of no concern to you,” Sauron hissed and Thranduil was glad for it. To relive the blatant horrors of that dark creature would truly shatter him.

“Forgive me,” Thranduil said ere he could control his chapped lips. It felt like he had crossed an invisible line in asking Sauron for his forgiveness when he had not trodden wrongly. It felt like the right thing to say.

“I will, if you but let me shed the misleading and one-dimensional shell of Sauron and try to see me for who I really am.”

“And who are you?”

“Mairon,” he said simply. It was a Quenyan name, if Thranduil’s limited linguistic skills did not fool him. He did not speak Quenya nor any language of Valinor or his distant kin. There was just enough patience in him to have picked up the crudest basics of Silvan and only because they were people he held dear to his heart. It was by their choice that Sindarin had become the language of trade in the Woodland Realm.

“And what does that mean?” Thranduil asked. He tried to tug at his blankets, wanted them to cover his shoulders, his exposed neck, but his hands found no leverage. Mairon chuckled and expanded. “Thank you.”

“It means ‘the admirable’.”

“That is quite poetic.” Thranduil yawned and let his eyes fall shut. “Who gave it to you?”

“Why, my father of course, you silly little elf.“ A pressure on his cheek… warm and dry… almost like a good-night kiss.

“Mairon,“ he said. Mairon hummed and that noise was enough to put Thranduil to sleep. Once more, he was blessed not to dream and he awoke rested, alone.


	11. Ignorance Is Bliss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this completes a very important part in Thranduil's... transformation. Hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Song is 'Ignorance Is Bliss' by Beartooth.
> 
> TWs: violence

_Wake me  
Wake me up get me out  
Shake me   
shake me till my neck breaks   
Hit me   
Put your fist in my chest_

Mairon made himself sparse over the next few days – weeks? months? – but Thranduil could wait. Time was nothing to him now and he had gotten this far. What were another few days? As long as he kept Mairon’s interest fixed on him, Legolas was safe. Again, Thranduil bided his time, mimed a good little prisoner, and complied with whatever was thrown at him.

He had gotten used to the heavy thunder of stampeding orcs to announce his daily meals. So much so that when his ears picked up on barely audible, tip-toeing steps outside his door, Thranduil wrote it off as an acoustic hallucination. He was prone to them these days, especially when his tired mind wandered off into the realm of dreams and visions. Some of them prompted by Mairon as they were gruesome and bloody, and some of his own imagination. Needless to say, when the footsteps stopped, Thranduil thought nothing of it. That was, until the lock gave a grating sound, akin to a pick that scraped against its insides. But that would mean. No. What?

The door swung open, not to reveal the ghastly features of yet another of Mairon’s puppets who wanted to gnaw at Thranduil’s limbs rather than provide him food, but a thin body, cast in shadow. Thranduil shook himself, rubbed his eyes, but the form did not disappear.

“Mylord?” A timid voice. She crept towards him, cast around for signs of their captors, hunched in a defensive stance.

“Lymerien?” Thranduil gasped. His eyes adjusted to the sudden assault of light and he had a clear view of her. Her brown hair was tangled and cut in places so that he could see bloody patches of scalp. Her lip was split and swollen, and her face was haggard, stretched over sharp bones. But her eyes were wide awake in their deep sockets as they darted all over the place. Settled on Thranduil’s form. Took inventory of him just as he had of her.

“You look well,” Lymerien said, all weary astonishment. “Considering…”

“You look terrible,” he replied. Thranduil was in too much shock to be cordial. He couldn’t even be relieved. He had buried her, sung her parting song and grieved her loss with bitter tears. Yet here she was, blood coursing through her veins. She looked battered and starved but kept to her feet. A heavy iron dagger protruded from her belt, an orcish weapon she must have nicked on her way here. Lymerien was alive. Lymerien was, she couldn’t be, she had been, she must have, she was.

“Had to take out ten of those cockroaches to even get out of my cell,” Lymerien snarled. “What a day I have had.”

“They kept you imprisoned all this time?”

“Yes. Though I was unconscious for a lot of it.” She extended her hand and he let her heave him upward. His legs nearly gave in, his muscles convulsed. Thranduil did not remember when last he had stood on them, all this time spent in his head. Snaking an arm around his waist, Lymerien steadied him until the twitches were replaced by a harsh pins and needles sensation. Thranduil took a tentative step forward, then another. Towards the door. Towards air and light and life. The sun, though muted by Mairon’s magical dome, hit his face and he almost cried out in relief.

“How come you haven’t died of thirst?” he asked and leaned against the doorframe, searching the perimeter for any signs of orcs. It was eerily empty and for a second, his mouth went dry with fear.

_He has launched his attack_ , Thranduil thought. _No one is here because they are out there, slaughtering my people._ But no. Mairon would have told him, he was sure of it, if only to taunt him.

“This is not the first time I’ve landed myself in a tyrant’s dungeon. I know a trick or two to survive,” she hissed. This was new information to Thranduil, but he had not the mental energy to enquire after her experiences. He was still too overwhelmed by her mere presence. She was a symbol of hope for if she was alive, so might Tauriel be. Thranduil desperately missed Tauriel, her sometimes dangerously optimistic view of terrible situations and the resulting recklessness. Her easy smile when in private.

“Have you heard of the others?” he asked.

“No. You?”

“Feren is dead. What happened to Tauriel and Elros, I cannot say.”

“We have no time to worry about them.”

Lymerien pushed past him and tip-toed along the edge of the wall that encompassed Thranduil’s prison. He looked around but could find no point of remark to give him orientation. The only trees he saw were ashen and dead and there was cracked stone all around him.

“Where are you going?” Thranduil whispered. It had not occurred to him what would happen beyond the opening of his cell. He was content where he stood, to bask in the dull sunlight, to breathe in something other than his own fluids. Lymerien hovered at the corner of the wall and gave him a curious look.

“Mylord. I’m getting you out of here,” she said and retraced her steps, gripped his shoulders. “You have been gone for too long. The mission has failed, but our people still need you.” Thranduil laughed, a rusty sound that had been caught in his chest for way too long.

“There is no getting out of here. It is a miracle he hasn’t gotten hold of you yet. But he will… he will.”

“It’s worth a try.”

“No.”

“Your people need a king.”

“They have one.”

“With all due respect, mylord,” Lymerien said through gritted teeth and her grip on Thranduil tightened, her neglected nails digging into his skin. His blood drew easily. “Legolas is too young. He has neither the experience nor the foresight you have. I don’t feel comforted by the thought of him occupying that throne while you choose to waste away here, a coward.”

“You dare to say this to my face?” Thranduil asked quietly. There was a thunderstorm inside of him, raging and loud. Lightning flashed over his vision. For a split-second, he wished her dead. He had just settled into his misery, into the hopelessness of it all. Why did she have to barge back into his life and cause turmoil? What right did she have to decide what was best for him?

“Yes, I dare,” she exclaimed. “If that is what it takes to get you to wake up, I will gladly insult Legolas. I love him as much as anyone, but that doesn’t mean he bears no flaws and you know it. He has not even begun to comprehend this world, Thranduil. He is a child.”

“You will not address me like that.”

“Why not? You have all but renounced your kingship.”

“Fine,” Thranduil hissed and shook free of her grasp. “Show me out, if you must. But you bear the consequences.” 

Lymerien deflated, relief washing away the anger that had sharpened her features into something feral, wolf-like.

“I only mean to help you, mylord. Saving your life would be the greatest honor there is.” These words stirred something inside of Thranduil and he was reminded of a conversation that seemed ages past. Feren and his wide-eyed devotion. If Lymerien followed that same path… but no. Her will power surpassed that of Feren’s by miles.

“Go,” Thranduil said and she crept back along the wall. He followed, willing his muscles into motion though every fiber of his body screamed for him to scramble back to his cell and curl up. Wait for his only companion in the darkness to return and take him away to grander things. Thranduil didn’t want Mairon’s wrath when he had just earned an ounce of his trust. But he didn’t want to let his people down either. Oropher’s voice was still anchored among his thoughts, but it had grown fainter these past days.

_You never abandon_ , it whispered, straining to compete with Mairon’s.

_You never – you owe them nothing – abandon – what gratitude have they shown you – your people – none. – Thranduil – Thranduil – you never – you deserve to take your own path for once – Thranduil._

His fragmented consciousness found it hard to keep up with this and he focused on the roughened streaks of Lymerien’s hair as she led him down a corridor of sundered marble and down a flight of stairs. They were as silent as was possible in this echoing space and always Thranduil waited for Mairon to spill from cracks and into his heart, punishing him. Before he knew it, they were back in the hall with the broken chandelier where he had sent Tauriel away.

_Come back_ , he had told her. For the first time in their friendship, Tauriel had broken a promise. It hadn’t been loud, but it had been there, in the way she had looked at him. 

“Don’t linger,” Lymerien whispered from across the room where she hovered near the edge of another stairway, scouring their surroundings. Still, no sign of life. It was a throwback in time, only that Thranduil had lost some major part of himself. He had no idea what it might be. He followed. Down the stairs, around the corner. Lymerien halted, listened.

The hammer came out of nowhere, smashed her skull in right where she was crouched. Thranduil froze in his stance and gaped down at her. The blood ran hotly down his cheeks. Her face red, swollen, distorted, unrecognizable. All that was left to mark her as Thranduil’s kin was the torn and dirty standard-issue garb that hugged her slender hips. Just like that, she was dead again.

_Oh, Nienna weep for her_ , Thranduil thought as a massive, almost troll-sized orc stampeded down the stairs behind him. _I have no tears left._

He moved not as the orc picked him up and threw him over his shoulder. Marched back towards the heart of Dol Guldur. Back to where Thranduil belonged.


	12. Redefined

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Redefined' by As I Lay Dying. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy! :)

_Healed scars can be stronger than skin  
The wounds we have can be rewritten  
Redefined, redefined, redefined  
Agony today is tomorrow's strength, redefined  
So don't run away_

Against all that Thranduil had learned to expect, the orc did not throw him back into his cell, but made for the tower at the center of the hilltop, the only structure that was still somewhat intact, cutting high into the air. As they walked, signs of inhabitation perked up everywhere, in the hissing murmurs of orcs, the tell-tale clangs of smith work, the hoarse barks of the wargs. They met several armed groups of soldiers along the way and Thranduil wondered how Lymerien and him had ever gotten as far as they had. Dol Guldur felt crowded, full of aggressive energy and the stench of overcooked meat.

The big orc stopped several times to converse in low grunts with others, and each time Thranduil tried to pick out something, if only a word, but the Black Speech was locked to him, even after countless hours of talking to its creator. Perhaps Mairon could teach him.

They made slow progress towards the main tower and Thranduil stayed as still as possible. He was bound for punishment of the worst kind, had defied Mairon after he had given Thranduil his name and his trust. And for what? A fool’s hope. He shouldn’t have listened to Lymerien, of course she would want to get out. There was no out for Thranduil. He wanted no out. He was in a good enough place, and as long as he could keep Mairon from attacking his home he was even useful to his people. But now? Now he had thrown away his shot at a death in dignity. Now he would suffer.

The orc entered the structure through a narrow door, ducked, but not enough to keep Thranduil’s head from scraping against the stone and the skin on his temple drew blood, rubbed raw by the harsh impact. Then, the orc sat him down in the middle of what looked to be an entrance hall with stairs to either side of the door, and big, unhinged double doors of moldy wood at the center. Behind them, Thranduil caught a glimpse of dusty silver. Even here, heaps of bones littered the ground and if Thranduil breathed through his mouth, he would catch dust on his tongue. The only thing different about the space was the smell. Not like sweaty orc or warg dung or even burnt meat, but of a campfire in the forest. A pleasant aroma of a smoke-ridden gale. Was this Mairon’s home? A broken tower full of memories?

“Wait,” the orc grunted, and left Thranduil to his own devices. Thranduil folded his hands behind his back and did as he was told. He wanted to explore the building, and his temple stung, but he couldn’t afford to step out of line.

Another orc came in not long after, this one smaller than Thranduil by about a head, but the brutal axe that sat over his shoulders left no doubt that he had a good bit of fight in him. Thranduil didn’t want to try at any rate.

“You,” the orc spat. “Follow me.” His Sindarin was thickly accented, but for once not jangled and messed up and it almost startled Thranduil. He trailed after the orc on unsteady legs, clutched his stomach which still ached from the bigger orc’s poky shoulder.

They went up, up jagged stairs. Their edges dug into Thranduil’s feet as his boots were raw from dirt and lack of care. He struggled to keep up with the brutal pace the orc set, while dodging the axe that swung left and right as they went in circles, up, up. Blood dripped down his cheeks.

“In here.”

The room was bright with sunlight, perched towards the top of the fortress with two windows that looked out over the ruins. They were barren, but if Thranduil squinted, he could make out reddish treetops in the distance. The floor was of stone, but covered with a thick scarlet rug that, though worn down by age, looked more comfortable than the straw Thranduil had slept on up until now. There was a bed also, with real linens and pillows in some nondescript color, a rusty metal dresser and a table with a chair. It was better than his room at home. It was spacious enough for him to walk in circles. There was light, for Eru’s sake, light to nourish him and he was sure he would need nothing else to keep his body going while his mind decomposed under Mairon’s fingers. Decomposed to grow into something beautiful and clever, not dulled by the make-belief of his kin or the triviality of mortal loss.

What was more, one corner of the room held a metallic tub and it was filled to the brim with steaming hot water.

“May I?”

“You have to,” the orc grunted. “I will be back with clothing. You cannot wear that-“ He pointed at Thranduil’s battered tunic, all the color faded to a dull gray, and the split open breeches, that hung loosely on his hips, and spat into a corner. “-when the Dark Lord next comes calling. He expects more of you now.”

Thranduil bowed his head, eyes fixed to the ground with a flush in his cheeks as he waited for the orc to depart. He undressed, eager to get out of the rags and into the tub. Sinking into it was heaven. Too hot to feel comfortable just yet, but his muscles let go of their aches and soon he was submersed, his head swam in pleasure. There was no soap, but the scalding water was enough to make him feel reborn. He leant back and watched as streaks of brown seeped away from his skin, rubbed at his thighs and arms. Oh, what perfect bliss to be clean.

With steady fingers, Thranduil brushed out the tangles in his hair, scrubbed his head as well as the water would allow him. With the dirt washing away, so did the constant strain on his scalp that had resulted from the mixture of dirt, blood and sweat. When Thranduil rose at last, the wet strands of pale blond reached to his hipbone. It must have been months then. Months at this place, but somehow that realization did not affect him.

A soft cotton cloth sat folded on a small stool to his left and Thranduil took it to dry himself off. He was just about to wander over to one of the small windows and have a good look at the sun for once, when the door opened, and two orcs were ushered in by the one who spoke Sindarin. They deposited a dark pile of fabric on top of the table and next it a plate laden with food. Thranduil couldn’t believe his eyes as he watched steam curl off a large chunk of bread, not rotten, but fresh and wheat colored. There was hard cheese also and thin slices of roasted meat. His mouth watered at the smell, but his stomach was quickly overwhelmed with the notion of anything that wasn’t thin broth. He would try, as it seemed to be Mairon’s wish.

“Dress,” the orc said through gapped teeth. “And eat.” They left him to it, and Thranduil walked over to the table. Something perched on top of the pile of clothes gleamed. The necklace Legolas had given him.

Thranduil’s breath caught as he touched the small piece of metal. His roughened fingertips felt the dulled arrowhead between his fingers and, ah, yes, it was the same one. Shaking, he took the leather band and let it fall over his head. It settled against his chest as if had never been gone.

_It’s for luck, ada_. A child’s sentiment, but a comfort, nonetheless. Thranduil pressed his palm over the token and hoped that Legolas was well.

_Do not mourn me, love_ , Thranduil thought. _I am not lost._

“Thank you,” he said.

“I am being generous,” Mairon replied out of nowhere. A light breeze pervaded the room from the windows and with it came a faint cloud of black mist, which shifted its form, looking humanoid, then like a wolf that bared its teeth, then like nothing at all. It hovered near the center of the room, in a constant circle of expansion, retraction. Thranduil was acutely aware of his state of undress, but he didn’t dare reach for the clothes Mairon had provided.

“Most generous,” Thranduil said.

“You are hurt.” The mist thickened and rushed over Thranduil’s body in a tight embrace. Goosebumps erupted all over this skin, and he felt the gash on his temple knit close.

“Again, I thank you,” Thranduil said, and smiled. It felt odd. Only half of his face complied, and he was sure he looked an utter fool, but Mairon hummed in contentment. Swirled around Thranduil’s neck, his chest. The touch was warm and tingled. Thranduil’s stomach stirred.

“Better get dressed,” Mairon purred next to his ear. “Before you catch a cold.”

Thranduil gulped and nodded, turning to the pile of clothes, and unfolded them. They were dark gray, a long silken skirt and a knee-length tunic to go over it which was split in the middle from the navel downwards. The hem of the sleeves and the chest part were embroidered with swirls of black threat. Thranduil squinted. It looked vaguely like an eye, staring up at him, but then again, he was still dizzy from all the excitement of the day, the wound, this. He dressed in silence and pulled his hair out of the high collar. He froze mid-motion as he straightened his cuffs. Mairon still shifted shapes in the middle of the room.

“This is no punishment,” Thranduil said. On the contrary, the bath, the clothes, the food, it was more than he had had in weeks. More than he needed. It felt like a reward.

“Should it be?”

“I tried to flee.”

“From what I understand, you were made to flee.”

“Lymerien broke free and gave her life at my expense.” Surely, that had to make Mairon furious. The audacity. But no. His feä was steady, hovered in that human-like shape once more, fragmented hair-like strands of darkness flowing around his shoulders as he spoke:

“Nothing less than she deserved, don’t you agree?”

Thranduil didn’t reply. He didn’t think her death was justified, but he couldn’t help the flashes of rage he felt. She had been insolent and rough with him. She had risked herself unnecessarily and him too. Had risked his fragile hold on Mairon’s attention for nothing. It is better this way, he told himself. No more suffering for her to go through and no more compromise to his status.

“You look good, Thranduil. The dark color suits you.” Thranduil looked down himself. Without a mirror it was hard to tell, but the soft fabric felt good against his skin and to be clothed properly again gave him a sense of empowerment. He had truly risen to favor.


	13. Me In My Own Head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is late again, I'm sorry. Life got away from me, but I will post the next chapter later today so yay. Hope you enjoy, it's all downhill from here. :D
> 
> Song is 'Me In My Own Head' by Beartooth. Great song by one of the best metalcore bands out there. Give it a listen if that's your thing!

_What I would give to sleep my life away  
I'd never feel alone again  
And yet it's still the same when I'm dreaming  
Cause at the end of the day it's just me in my own head_

The next few days passed by Thranduil as though caught in a dream-state. Now that he had an exact idea of the wanderings of the sun, his sense of time got more distorted. He would wake up at noon, her brilliance kissing his face, and fall back asleep in the middle of the night. The next he woke it would be cast over and if Thranduil stood at his window, wide awake and filled with nervous energy, and squinted, he could see the faint outlines of stars. Far removed. Cold. He used to find solace in their sight, but now his stomach churned in wrath. As was well and right.

Mairon didn’t visit for a long while, under the claim that Thranduil needed some time to readjust to a normal cycle of life. There were scheduled meals, and bath times and gradually, Thranduil’s body woke out of its decayed state, out of the constant fever dreams and panic attacks. The spoon he ate with still shook as he brought it to his mouth. The screams that he uttered upon waking where still shrill and unavoidable. But a week or so after his wannabe-flight, Thranduil first managed to rise with the sun, and join it in going down. The next morning, he couldn’t say what he had done the previous day, only that there had been potatoes and cooked deer for lunch and that he had heard the twitter of a songbird over from the forest.

Sometimes, Thranduil spent the whole day on his feet in wide circles. His muscles released their tautness over the movement, relieved to be ridden of immobility.

Sometimes, Thranduil lay in bed and marveled at its softness. Stared at the ceiling in a quest for answers about his future. Would he succeed in his mission and go down as one of the greatest King of the Eldar to have ever treaded upon this land? Or would he succumb to Mairon’s manipulations after all and become a puppet, to be steered and discarded at a god’s whim? Both options held their distinct kind of appeal, but Thranduil knew what he should prefer. He didn’t feel much of a hero.

Sometimes, Thranduil stood by the window and looked out at the forest. He searched within his heart for a longing that should be engraved there, but it seemed the lines were smudged. On a rational level, Thranduil wondered about Legolas, about the fate of his people. He would still do everything in his power to protect them. But that was an instinct that remained to him by years of indoctrination and he couldn’t shake the impression that Legolas was fine. Why else had he never sent someone to search for Thranduil?

_Because you told him not to._

“So, what if you told him?” Mairon asked, his voice liquid and pleasant against Thranduil’s eardrums. “If he really cared, he would have tried either way.”

Thranduil smiled, and turned back towards his room, in hope to see the scattered dust of Mairon’s feä there. But the room was empty, and so was the air outside of it. Thranduil patted towards the door and chanced a peak down the corridor, the stairs. Mairon was nowhere to be seen.

“Mairon?” Silence met him. Down below in the courtyard, hollering laughter. Thranduil sank to his bed, his muscles drained. Whether he had imagined the comment or not, it had been the plain truth. Legolas was a head-strong young elf. His love so fierce and bright. Not bright enough to save his waylaid father. He took a deep breath and unlaced his boots. Reclined to stare at the ceiling with its bare wooden beams and cobwebs frozen in time.

The light had begun to dim, and though dinner would come in any time now, Thranduil wasn’t hungry. At least not for food. It was something insubstantial that he lacked, something he couldn’t grasp, but wanted for desperately. No amount of hot meals or baths could fill that void that had sprung to life deep in the center of his chest. No. Thranduil had been a fool to think that sunlight would sustain him or that he could be happy.

The orcs came and went without a fuss. They didn’t force Thranduil out of his apathy. In fact, they rarely acknowledged him at all and scurried away as soon as he glanced their way. Thranduil considered the bowl of fresh fruit perched on his table for all of two seconds before going back to his ruminations. It would still be fine in a few hours. „What am I missing?” he asked, hoping against hope that Mairon might hear. He didn’t. Thranduil didn’t sleep that night which almost messed up his stable sleep schedule again. He got no answer. And so, he went on his daily routine.

By the time Thranduil had counted out twenty days, he knew what he lacked. And as that realization settled into his bones, Mairon graced him with his presence once more.

“You seem glum,” he said, flitting this way and that while Thranduil picked at his stew without much vigor.

“You seem… the same.” Thranduil put a piece of meat into his mouth then spat it out as it dissolved into thin tasteless strings. More than overcooked. Thranduil stood up. The chair scraped against the stone floor. Madness threatened to overtake him. Then a gust of wind against his cheek, like a sigh.

“What is it?” Mairon asked. He had stopped his frantic movements and formed a whirlwind around Thranduil’s body. There was no calm in the eye of the storm, not for Thranduil. He felt a passionate fury at Mairon’s casual disregard for him. He had labored so hard, so long, just to stay alive and be good. As things were, he was nothing more than a trophy to gather dust in the corner. Albeit a well-kept trophy. Thranduil squared his shoulders.

“It has been almost three weeks.”

“So?”

“Three weeks with nothing to do but eat, sleep and stare out of the window.”

“Get to the point, Thranduil. I can just as easily take all of this away again. Would you rather go back to your cell?”

“I missed you,” Thranduil said and raised his chin. He was not ashamed to admit to his loneliness, not anymore. Because he had long felt this way, the love of his subjects and son a source of strength, but not enough to fulfil him. Bard could have never taken that role either, no matter how honest the affection between them had been, no. Thranduil needed someone who wouldn’t panic at the first signs of trouble, someone who understood him. He likely grasped at straws, insane that he’d even said this out loud, but he was desperate. Without his kingdom to worry about, Thranduil had reached the next layer of needs. And this one had been killing him for all of seven hundred years.

“Ah,” Mairon said and the storm settled almost as a kind of cloak about Thranduil’s shoulders. Not quite an embrace, but closeness and while it wasn’t corporeal, it made Thranduil’s nerve ends ache. “How very rebellious of you. And here I am, thinking that you wanted to be left alone. Seeing as we are enemies and all that…”

“Does it have to be like that?”

“My dear, I have given you options, have I not? I wanted you by my side, but you refused time and time again.”

“It is not power I crave,” Thranduil said. He had an urge to move around, his muscles buckled against the immobility of his position, but the prickling apprehension that Mairon would not stay this close made him stand as still as he could. Shallow breaths, open eyes.

“What is it?” Mairon asked again. His warmth was a whole lifetime on Thranduil’s shoulders, the weight of countless years, deaths, tragedies and triumphs. It weighed him down, but he withstood. As the seconds ticked by, Mairon’s thoughts became jumbled with his own once more. This time, the invasion wasn’t so much that as Thranduil let down his mental defenses and invited the Dark Lord in like an old friend. Mairon spread out in his skull and relief flooded Thranduil’s blood stream. This was so much better, to share not only conversation, not only external space, but this fana that seemed made for two.

_Thranduil._

_Yes._

Mairon did not take long to pull the thoughts from Thranduil’s subconscious, no pain was necessary. What Thranduil had retained from Mairon’s memory had been apprehended by his own and mingled with twisted fantasies that made his stomach churn. Though whether in pleasure or shame, remained a mystery.

He saw himself, bared and chained to this very bed, Mairon’s long-perished form above him. Beneath him. Next to him. Heard vulgar curses and moaned confessions. Saw himself fall apart at the hands of one who so long had been nothing but an abomination to him. Thranduil gasped and tried to struggle free of the vision. But as his twin was bound to his bed, so was he to Mairon’s will and they both watched on as the corporeal Mairon picked Thranduil apart. Cries following long nails that dragged over pearly skin, moans in tandem with the heavy, perfectly coordinated thrusts of Mairon’s lithe body. The maimed half of Thranduil’s face a stark contrast against his nearly colorless hair which was pulled taut in Mairon’s hands. Under Thranduil’s real skin, a prickling sensation that spread until his whole body was aflame with it. Mairon, which one didn’t matter, hummed. Purred. And then pulled harshly away, from Thranduil in the vision, from Thranduil’s skull. As far away as possible while still occupying the same room.

“This is what you want of me?”

Thranduil hung his head. His cheeks burned. Ashamed after all. But what could he do? There was no denying it now that Mairon had seen.

“Yes, mylord,” he said.

“I have nothing to say to you, Thranduil. Nothing.” And with a hiss, he disappeared.


	14. Soft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Soft' by Motionless in White. Hope you enjoy! :) 
> 
> Extra points if you spot the Witcher reference.
> 
> Warnings for sexual content, humiliation, sm-type behavior

_Tell me what you've lost  
Hang me on your cross  
If you're so wise, then why are you so Soft?  
Do you leave your "throne" as you cast your stones?_

Thranduil sank to his knees on the spot, hit the rug with a dry sob that did nothing to absolve him of this sin. Arousal and confusion battled inside him. He had known that he wanted Mairon, but never once had the thought of a sexual relationship occurred to him. In distant dreams perhaps, but never consciously. Never explicit and blood-boiling like this. Thranduil searched for revolt in his heart, but as he sat there, his erection throbbing against leather, he found that he couldn’t shake the vision. And all that he felt was a visceral pull, a need for more.

His breeches were pulled taught, a warm prison in themselves. Mairon had chosen these breeches, had likely issued them exactly to Thranduil’s measurements, and it was that thought more than anything, that made Thranduil’s breath hitch. His fingers wandered. The shame, a lump in his throat, but his cheeks were aflame, and his heart raced, and if he didn’t give in to this desperate want right now, Thranduil might not make it through another day.

Bracing himself on the rug with one hand, Thranduil palmed his cock through the leather, unwilling to take it off. He moaned, then bit down hard on his lips. What if Mairon was still there, edged into a crack between splintered stone? What if he could see him in this state of weakness? The next moan came anyway as he tightened his fingers, moved in slow, languishing circles. The material rubbed against his skin, nearly uncomfortable, exquisite, agonizing. Thranduil closed his eyes. Imagined Mairon’s invisible gaze on him, how itburned. Took. Demanded. Imagined his deep, silky voice.

_Thranduil._

His breath quickened as his grip on himself tightened. There was hardly space for breath left in him, and he conjured Mairon’s words again. 

_How very rebellious of you._

“Mhng,” Thranduil groaned and rubbed frantically. He came hard and fast, spilling into his breeches like an adolescent elfling. After, he would feel horror at his actions. How absolutely sick of him to touch himself to the voice of Sauron. To come without even skin to skin contact. But in that moment, Thranduil could only think this: he wanted more, and he wanted it now. 

Thranduil collapsed to the ground, the rug rough against his tear-stained cheek. A wet and sticky mess in his crotch. Weak, and wanting.

He lay there for a long time. Empty, and shattered at the prospect of being damned to this, weak-spirited, maddened with desire for one who had shunned him. One he shouldn’t want in the first place. Still a gaping hole in his chest.

“Mairon?”

...

“Forgive me.”

…

“Please come back.”

…

Instead of Mairon, two orcs came just in time for sunset with yet another plate of food that had lost its taste.

“No bath?” he asked, his voice substance-less. The orcs grunted and left. Thranduil could imagine what must go through their head. _Nasty elf, how he is curled up in his own filth, stooping even lower than us to get the master’s attention_. Thranduil shuddered. Took one long breath and heaved himself up, on his knees, on his feet.

Without regard for his meal - he felt sick with shame and longing - Thranduil slipped out of his soiled breeches, shed his uniform of gray and black. He didn’t deserve it, not after he had so blatantly used it for his own purposes. Thranduil trudged over to his bed, slipped under the thin blanket and turned his back on this room, this life.

Sleep came with a condition. The condition that he had to relive his fantasy, would have to fall apart under Mairon’s pale fingers again, and again. Would gasp Mairon’s name into the pillows and awake aching and hard once more. Would fight himself back to an uneasy slumber for all of half an hour. He was enchanted, poisoned, out of his mind. Centuries, Thranduil had felt naught but little sparks, nothing a casual relation hadn’t been able to sate. And suddenly, he burned with a bestial need, burned down to his bones. There was no explanation for it but the magical. Only it made no sense for Mairon reject him as he had, if Thranduil’s downfall had been his objective. It was Thranduil’s own mind them, who bore him to this wracked harbor.

“Please,” he whispered into the night once more. Awoke with a start, his bare skin covered in sweat, to find the moon barely inched forward from the last time sleep had expelled him. “Please.” The cycle recommenced, tossing and turning, until Thranduil awoke again, covered in goosebumps and this time nothing of his dream remained but the tightness in his stomach and the fierce throb of his erection. Oh, by all the Valar that remained holy to him. Only one of them would suffice, really, to put him out of his misery. But it was no Vala who came to Thranduil’s side, and that was well. 

“Thranduil.” A sigh against the sensitive tip of his ear. A voice of which he could no longer tell whether it was produced by himself or whether it was real. It was the heat against his cheek, the whispers that followed, that confirmed Mairon’s real presence. The desire Thranduil had thought somewhat reined in roared back to life within the cavity of his chest. All of him was corrupted. “My naughty little eglath. What am I going to do with you?” 

“Whatever you see fit,” Thranduil said, breathless. _Whatever you see fit, just don’t forsake me. Be a better master than the one who made us take that name._ He kept his hands to either side of himself, careful not to give in to the itching in his fingers. Mairon had come back after all.

“And what do you want me to?” Mairon’s voice was like a gust of warm breath that traveled the length of Thranduil’s torso, embraced his thighs. Touched every square inch of exposed, sensitive skin, but the few Thranduil wanted him to. Thranduil was aware that dignity had been beyond his reach for a long time now, but he bit back on his moans, nonetheless. It made him feel a stronger, like he hadn’t yet relinquished all control to this mercurial being. In the full knowledge that Mairon owned every bit of him. “I cannot be that what you lust after. Without a body, I fear I cannot please you…” He trailed off, and made to drift away from Thranduil’s body, dissipated enough to become invisible.

“No.”

“No?”

“Anyway, you touch me would be… pleasing,” Thranduil said, and turned his head away from Mairon. His eyes met the moon, and he felt as cold as his light. Shivered with the absence of that touch.

“Hmm,” Mairon said. Without a sound, he moved closer to Thranduil again, enough so that the elf could feel him, could almost taste the fire of his feä on his own starved lips, but not close enough to touch. Thranduil writhed, he held his breath. His head was full of curses, soft and harsh, but none ventured past his lips. All things considered, Thranduil was still a king. “Beg for it.”

More blood rushed towards Thranduil’s groin. His cock twitched helplessly, moist and aching.

“Please,” he said. Gripped the sheets. His breath came in heavy exhales and Mairon seemed unamused.

“That won’t cut it, dear,” he said. For once, not fire, not flame, not fierce at all. His voice was glacial, and he withdrew.

“I beg of you, please, take pity.”

“And?”

“Touch me.”

“Because?”

Thranduil bit his lip. Hovering over him, Mairon might have been icy and cruel, but Thranduil burned. Inside and out, his skin was flushed, his blood boiled. And still, he didn’t dare lay a hand to himself for fear of complete abandonment.

“Because I yearn for it. Please, Mairon, I-” Thranduil’s air was caught off as a thick vapor clogged up his throat and nose. At once, he gasped, suffocated. Mairon was all over him and not in the way Thranduil had wanted to. And yet. His eyes closed of their own accord. His balls tightened.

_You do not get to call me Mairon, not anymore. You gave up that privilege when you made me the object of your filthy little fantasies._

_What then?_

_Have you not come up with something?_

_… no._

_Master will do then._

Thranduil resurfaced with a gasp, drawing in as much breath and as fast as he could. This was too much.

“Well?” Mairon cooed. Where before he had coated the inside of Thranduil’s throat, he now caressed the outside in long, immaterial strokes of hot air.

“Please,” Thranduil said. “Master, please.” Mairon laughed, blatant and evil, as he wrapped around Thranduil’s cock, a cocoon of heat and pressure that had Thranduil moan in pleasure. Shifted in a slow rhythm and hummed against Thranduil’s tender skin.

“Again,” Mairon prompted.

“I can’t.”

“Thranduil,” he said, tightened his invisible grip to a point that was on the precipice of being painful. Warm gusts curled against the insides of Thranduil’s thighs, hot rage raked over his stomach. He shuddered.

“I beg of you, master, grant me release.”

“Go ahead then.”

Thranduil had not felt the built-up, had not known himself to be this close to relief, but at Mairon’s command his whole body tensed up and he came under cries of incoherent nonsense. Shame blossomed in his cheeks as Mairon retracted. Shame coated in pleasure. What an honor to have been touched as such, what an absolute nightmare.

“That was quick,” Mairon said dryly, then flitted over to the window where he became indiscernible against the dark velvet sky. “Go back to sleep now. Soon enough, you will need your strength.”

“M-master?”

“What?”

“I’m indebted to you.”

“More than you could ever repay me.” And off he was, to whatever business he had to attend to. Thranduil had a mind to clean himself off, but drowsiness overtook him the second Mairon disappeared. Towards a menagerie of dreams. Each one of them as exquisite as it was degrading. Each one another step into eternal damnation.


	15. Reinventing Hatred

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is 'Reinventing Hatred' by Upon A Burning Body, hope you enjoy the chapter hehe

_We walk amongst demons_   
_Hell on Earth_   
_We welcome the purge_

Thranduil’s life became routine, a habit his body took up in a matter of days. He woke in the morning with half a smile, lazily stretched in the rays of sunrise that fell onto his bare body. Had his fruit and his bath and got to his feet to move about. There was nothing to practice with, no stick or weapon, but Thranduil fell into his stances as though he was down there among the horde of orcs, with an intention to slay every last one of them. Mairon didn’t seem to mind his little training sessions, and Thranduil thrived under the prospect of something to pass his time. What he trained for, only Eru knew. He supposed the orcs were his allies now, or at least out of bounds. Mairon would discard him like a dead leaf if Thranduil so much as touched his soldiers and though his hatred and pity for them was engraved in the marrow of his bones, Thranduil refrained from considering them at all when they brought his lunch, and later his dinner.

The afternoons were spent in quiet contemplation as Thranduil’s eyes searched the ruins around him for glimpses of that which they had once been. His home, his father’s great realm. Strained his ears to hear Oropher’s footsteps among the metallic thunder of the orc’s and found no trace of them. Listened to the winds play in the few branches of dead trees that littered the hillside and found nothing of that regal and haughty voice. Not even in memory.

Fragments like scattered foliage whirled around in his mind, but if Thranduil but reached out to catch them, he came up empty-handed.

 _Your people_ , it said and Thranduil had no idea what about his people he should think of. They were Legolas’ people now and better off that way.

 _Your naneth would have,_ it laughed, but Thranduil couldn’t remember his mother. Had her hair been bright starlight like Thranduil’s or had it been auburn like Tauriel’s? Had she despised the thought of him as much as Legolas’ mother had, or had she loved him?

_Tonight, we say farewell…_

To whom? Why, when, how?

Thranduil shook his head. Smiled in melancholy for that which he had lost and let it go. Dinner passed like a blur as the adrenaline, the excitement in his veins built and built. He undressed after, folded his clothes on a small stool and slipped under the cold sheets that agitated his skin, spurred on his already swelling length. Then he lay there, yearn for the moment that Mairon graced him with a soft-spoken _Thranduil_ or a harsh _Elf_ or a smug _Good evening, little eglath_ , and Thranduil writhed under his ministrations. Swore senseless oaths into the darkness, and begged, and begged, and begged. He transformed into what Mairon made a habit of calling him.

“My insatiable little whore,” Mairon whispered, placing his ghostly touches along Thranduil’s collarbone. “Touch yourself for me.” And he did. He always did as was his master’s bidding. Needless to say, Mairon indulged him most of the time. There was no repayment for this, at least none Thranduil could discern.

“Do you find joy in this?” he panted once upon a twilight-ridden sky, as he fucked himself on his own hand. Mairon hummed and shifted over him, stretched out into a thin layer so that Thranduil was fully immersed within his embrace. Slipped into the narrow spaces between Thranduil’s fingers. Thranduil groaned. He got no answer, and soon forgot he had asked the question at all as his release hit him, and Mairon vanished ere the sensation had faded.

After, Thranduil fell asleep, wrapped in naught but the knowledge that tomorrow would be the same. And the day after, and the one after that. Thranduil, lulled in by this cycle and the constant pleasure, rarely thought of what would follow. He realized on some instinctive level that Mairon was not, in fact, doing this for the pleasure of it. Mairon had in mind dominion of this world, and Thranduil was chosen to be by his side in this endeavor. That position, the pleasure, the pride, would come with a cost. Thranduil wasn’t sure he’d be strong enough to pay it.

“Why do you come at night?” Thranduil asked once, before Mairon had even spoken. He had felt the Maia’s presence as surely as his own heartbeat. Of all the qualities his captor had shown him over the last few weeks (months, years, who cared for such a trivial thing as the passage of the seasons), punctuality was his most rewarding, his most agonizing.

“That is no concern of yours, sweetheart,” Mairon hissed. The air wavered before Thranduil’s eyes, and his vision blacked out as Mairon invaded Thranduil’s body through every opening there was. Scraped and screamed his sharp, guttural words until Thranduil felt not lifted to the skies with pleasure, but as though his internal organs had been shredded.

_Why?_

_Because_ , Mairon said and nagged at the insides of Thranduil’s skin, _you shouldn’t forget yourself. You have no rights to me or my time, so you better be grateful for what I do give you and not question me. Or I’ll simply quit our little… sessions._

_Forgive me._

_I’ll think about it._

When Thranduil came to, it was with a silent scream on his lips. The linens he occupied were soaked through and he could taste the blood on his tongue, feel it stick his fingers together. Under much protest and strain, the crust on his lids broke and his eyes opened to blinding daylight. The sky over Dol Guldur was clear for once, not blue, but the idea of it, covered with a layer of soot. No clouds far and wide. Outside, the orcs were quiet, huddled into shadows. The occasional snore drifted up to Thranduil’s room, the intermittent bark bounced off stone until its echo reached Thranduil’s ear. The blood was everywhere. A vesture of liquid scarlet. His nostrils were clogged up, but the coppery tang coated the inside of his throat. His hair, too, was red. So much blood.

“Mairon?” he asked weakly, but no reply came. Thranduil, fazed and numb, checked himself for injuries, but found none. No wounds, no answers. Only red.

 _It was but a mood swing_ , Thranduil told himself to keep his panic at bay. He harbored no illusion as to where all this blood had come from, it was as surely his own as he was Mairon’s puppet to play with. The amount should have killed him, and Thranduil suspected it was by his master’s whims that he was still alive. Nothing like waking up covered in his entire capacity for blood to remind him that his ties to Mairon were naught but a thin thread, ready to be snipped at any point. But if Marion meant to be rid of Thranduil, he would have killed him. A mood swing, nothing more, nothing less. Thranduil would behave and they would go back to their little routine. A mood swing.

Thranduil was about to get up from the mess, fetch some orc to bring him bath water, when the matter resolved itself. The door swung open and in stepped a hunched creature that carried a large pitcher from which steam curled in intricate patterns.

It was no orc.

Far from it.

It was Elros.

Shackled and weather-beaten Elros who sported half-healed gashes like claw marks on his throat and had the haunted look of one who had spent too long wandering enchanted corridors and bending to the whips of malevolent masters. Elros who, everything considered, looked fine.

On some level, Thranduil suspected he should have seen this coming. After Feren and Lymerien it came as no surprise to find Elros alive. It was even less wondrous that the elf had submitted to captivity, played the humble servant. After all, Thranduil had taken Elros by recommendation of Legolas and Tauriel. He had never personally witnessed outstanding behavior from him.

“Oh,” Thranduil said, straightening where he sat. Though he was naked, he felt superior to his guard. “It is you.”

“Mylord, Thranduil,” Elros said with a furrowed brow. “I don’t believe it.” It was on second glance that the absolute massacre registered with the other elf. His eyes grew wide and the pitcher he held clattered to the ground, spraying hot water everywhere. Water that had been meant to clean Thranduil.

“Still a good for nothing fool, I see,” Thranduil murmured and rose from his pool of blood. Elros spluttered.

“I didn’t dare to hope. To find you alive is… simply unbelievable.”

“Well, get over it. And fetch me some more water,” Thranduil said.

“Impertinent little slut,” Elros hissed under his breath, then started, horrified at his own words. “I’m sorry, mylord. It’s this place, you see. It gets to you.”

“It obviously got to you,” Thranduil said, and walked over to the window at the far-end of the room, offering Elros nothing more but his bloody backside. Next to Thranduil, the tub gaped empty.

“What happened to you, mylord?”

 _I have no idea_ , Thranduil thought, and crossed his arms over his chest, and: _I have to make sure he won’t try anything funny like Lymerien did._

“A punishment,” he said. “Because I am such an impertinent little slut.”

“Apologies, mylord.”

“Make up for it by getting back to where you came from.” The blood dried and tugged at Thranduil’s skin. The smell hit him properly. His stomach clenched.

“At once.”


	16. Fireworks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title based on 'Fireworks' by Make Them Suffer, please enjoy! :)

_This time I'll make things right_  
Come bring your flames, take my hand  
We'll together watch it burn

Elros made a fuss of it. It took him five trips to fill the tub, and once Thranduil was submersed in the rapidly reddening water, he stood by his side, hands clasped behind his back. His eyelid twitched.

“What is it?”

“Mylord, let me help.”

“With what?”

Elros smiled sheepishly and produced a pristine white cloth from Eru knew where. Thranduil said nothing as the other elf crouched down by his side and wiped the blood from his face, ran his fingers through Thranduil’s hair again, and again, until the bath water was nearly black with color, and his scalp tingled. Thranduil let it happen. It wasn’t unpleasant and his limbs felt heavy from the night’s ordeal as they remembered much more of it than he did. To have been drained as such would have done a number on anyone and Thranduil, even though his exercises were regular, was nowhere near top form.

“Have you been kept here all this time?” Elros asked, once Thranduil was scrubbed clean and his skin felt shriveled from the water exposure. He did not reply, and got up and stepped out of the tub, let Elros dry him off with careful hands. If he closed his eyes, closed his nostrils against the pervading stench off all that blood, he could imagine it was Galion whose warm breath ghosted against Thranduil’s bare shoulders. Galion who hummed under his breath as he helped Thranduil into a fresh change of the dark gray uniform. But then Elros stepped too close, and a faint scent of death clung to him which dispelled the vision. Galion was far away, and Thranduil did not miss him. Merely a habitual sensation, triggered by memory of being cared for as such. Thranduil allowed himself a glimpse into the present. Imagined Galion with the same tune on his lips as he brushed out Legolas’ hair and braided it. Helped the younger elf into his regal robes. Brought him herbal teas when the nightmares overwhelmed him. A longing, harsh and painful, bloomed over Thranduil’s chest like blood from an arrow to the heart. Legolas.

But no. His son was not one to suffer nightmares, and he could care for himself. Galion would be lost at first but would find something else to devote himself to. Thranduil projected and that was silly. He had more important things to consider.

“Are we quite done?” he asked and peered down at Elros who crouched by Thranduil’s feet to straighten the cuffs on his breeches. When he made to fetch the boots, Thranduil turned away. He did not feel like wearing shoes, did not feel like anything. No energy to practice, no vigor, no life. Like it had bled out of him with all the rest of his reason. Only his desire remained. Insatiable and eternal. Eating him alive.

While Thranduil stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back, and contemplated how to best get rid of Elros, and soon, the elf in question hurried around the room. Mopped the floor and changed the sheets. It was uncommon behavior for one who looked down on anyone whose profession lay not with arms, but with servitude. Being beaten into it must have wiped out that arrogant part of Elros. He’d lost himself, no matter how uncomfortable he’d been. Death would have been a kinder end.

As the sun crept to its noon-high, the shuffles and rustles behind Thranduil finally ceased and Elros left and entered the room one last time. Returned with a bowl of potato soup. The savory smell had Thranduil’s knees buckle and his mouth watered. No matter how much he yearned for a quick passing of the day, to return to his rituals and to Mairon’s treatments, he had to surrender to his lesser needs. Without a glance at Elros, Thranduil moved over to the table, and sat.

“Is mylord angry?” 

“I require no more of you.”

“Now that’s a joke, if ever I heard one,” Elros muttered as he took the chair opposite Thranduil and helped himself to a piece of bread.

“You think this is funny?” Thranduil asked, incredulous. This was a jarring shift in tone and went past the scope of Elros’ usual demeanor. If Thranduil had been a little less lust-filled, a little saner, he might have recognized the signs of torture, the fragile states of mind he himself suffered. As it was, he wanted to be left alone. An order even someone as incompetent as Elros should be able to follow.

“Of course not, mylord.” Elros flushed. “But you see, it is not you I answer to now. A predicament that has me full of self-loathing, I assure you. If I don’t heed his calls though… well, you experienced it for yourself only this morning.”

“And Mairon wants you to keep me company, does he?” Thranduil asked and shoveled soup into his mouth. It scalded tongue and throat alike, but his insides were grateful. Churned, and begged for more. Across from him, Elros had his arms crossed over his chest, puzzlement written into the curve of his eyebrows.

“Mairon, mylord?”

Hah. So Elros had not gotten the name. A privilege after all.

_One that has been taken from you_ , Thranduil reminded himself. His mood darkened, and his patience thinned.

“Do you have ears, Elros? Do they recognize the name of your keeper? Sauron?”

“Forgive me, mylord. I must have misheard. Please, eat.”

Thranduil ate in silence, avoided the simpering eyes of his guard, and contemplated how he could get a message through to Mairon. Why ever the Maia thought it was a good idea to have Elros be a personal servant to Thranduil. Or maybe this was some sort of torture. Either way, Thranduil wanted to be rid of him. 

“Leave me, I require nothing more.” Thranduil stood so fast, the chair toppled over, and made for the one haven he had left. Slipped under the sheets in a smooth movement well practiced.

Elros, against all Thranduil’s inclinations, sat down beside him.

“You should rest, mylord,” he murmured and tucked Thranduil in. Brought his hand up to his king’s face and pushed back a strand of damp hair. Weariness descended on Thranduil and he was helpless against it. His muscles melted into inaction. “You are oh so pale.”

“Need to stay awake,” Thranduil said, but his lids fell shut. He fought to open them again, had to surrender under their heavy weight. Had to stay up. Stay awake. Once Elros was gone, ordered back to the filthy rat hole he occupied, Mairon would return. Thranduil would apologize, and they would go back to more frivolous activities. At the thought, blood rushed towards his groin.

“Sleep,” came the reply, and Elros’ voice was not his own anymore. It was deep and rumbled. Torn between a chuckle and adoration. _Sleep, my love_. The air smelt of sandalwood and pine needles. There was hair against Thranduil’s cheeks, soft as feathers as his father bent down to touch his forehead to Thranduil’s.

“Ada?”

“Sh.” His father drew back, but the warmth remained, and contentment flooded Thranduil’s body. His limbs grew heavy and sluggish, his every thought reduced to listening to his father as he sang.

_Westward do our feet meander._

A tune that was at once the voice of every Sindar, and a single dance of Oropher’s own as he retold the first journey which had led them to Doriath. A song Thranduil had all but forgotten. He hummed along as his mind floated.

_To Doriath, yet unknown._

_To Doriath, forever home._

Thranduil had never been happier. To be here with Oropher, at the end of all that was sane and holy, was a gift beyond measurement. To have his father sing him to sleep, a lullaby that was magical and melancholic, was pure bliss. If ever the blessed realm would call to him, it would sound like this.

_On moss-strewn trails we tread,_

_Through thicket green and river blue._

_Under starlit skies we waltz,_

_Our skin coated in night’s sweet dew._

The realization seeped in slowly, like poison that took a long time to traverse his system before it reached every corner and worked its devastation. Oropher could not be here, could not sing as such, a song Thranduil hadn’t heard in more than half a millennium. Longer possibly. And once he understood that Oropher had died, had last sung this song rocking little Legolas in his arms, the voice he heard distorted and morphed. Thranduil jolted awake, wide-eyed. His heartbeat almost drowned out the soft notes, the words that left Elros’ lips, as he bent over Thranduil, still caressing his king’s cheek.

_In Doriath, we rest and roam._

_In Doriath, forever-home._

Thranduil was stricken. His throat betrayed him as he sang along.

_Not westward do our feet meander,_

_No gulls can sway our sturdy dome._

Elros smiled through the last verses.

_To Doriath, whose fate we mourn._

_To Doriath, forever home._

The last note hung in the air, palpable between them, as Thranduil worked to hold back his tears.

“How do you know this song?” he asked weakly. Elros cocked his head. His smile widened. And then, Thranduil fell into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read the full lullaby here: https://2ndchoiceamir.tumblr.com/post/622369061959057408/a-voyage-to-doriath


	17. Forever Marked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Forever Marked' by Currents is the song this chapter is named after and you will find out why. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Warnings for: war flashbacks, graphic violence, gore, choking, explicit sex

_As the knife burned deeper in my sunken skin_  
I think "how innocent we used to be"  
I only hope when they destroy our lives that they look us in the eyes

Upon waking in that very same bed, as though Thranduil had done it all his life, Elros was still there. Not by Thranduil’s side, but relaxed against the closed door, his arms crossed. His brown hair open and neat. The dirt washed out, the tangles brushed out. His uniform too, looked as though not a day had gone by since their arrival in Dol Guldur, all dark green and straightened, even the standard belt looked polished. Elros’ eyes shone with mirth though he wore a snarl. The only thing about him to suggest that the last months hadn’t been entirely fabricated by Thranduil were the angry red welts that enclosed his throat. One of the gashes climbed up all the way to Elros’ ear and Thranduil realized that part of it had been torn away.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Elros said, his voice colored with cocky sarcasm. It all clicked into place. Elros had put on an act by Mairon’s command. He was more than fine. It made sense too, for the two of them to get along. Anger thrashed inside of Thranduil. How dare they conspire against him? Elros was a useless, fragile, young piece of- “Now, now, leave poor Elros out of this.”

Or he had gone insane.

“How about poor Elros leave me alone? Crawl back to your new master and have fun scheming against me.” Thranduil asked, and fell onto his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. He watched a large spider crawl along an invisible net. Didn’t even attempt to guess at how long he had been out this time. All his desire for Mairon had merged with his fury. Of course, the Maia, the Dark Lord, Enemy of the Free People et cetera et cetera, would never favor Thranduil. Of course, he wouldn’t want someone like him. No, Elros was much better suited to the task. Pah.

“Morgoth save me, he is jealous,” Elros said, and Thranduil chanced another glance. The elf had his face buried in his hands, but through the thin fingers a faint shimmer was visible. Like his eyes shone orange.

“You would call upon that vile creature to save you?”

“Ah, you have so much yet to learn. But it is fine, I will teach you,” Elros said. He looked up at Thranduil and it was not his guard who stared back at him. The face was unchanged except for the eyes which had been replaced by flame, broken up by black slits for pupils. Thranduil felt thrown back in time.

_Screams that filled the air, tore through it. Metal on metal, and the smell of blood his whole world. The sky burned, burned, and from it they fell in heaps, eagles as big as mountains, and dragons crushing under them whole battalions. His people all around him dead, dying. So many screams. Thranduil stumbled over a severed leg, he picked up a mithril blade that stuck in the chest of some overgrown troll. He heard it before he saw it, the screech of doom. Thranduil dove forward, he slipped, he pushed his father out of the way and was pushed back in return. The apocalypse descended over their heads and HE watched, laughed in delight as Oropher was reduced to nothing. Last words that hung in the air, painted among the ashes of his smoldering body._

_You’ve overestimated your abilities, Thranduil._

Then, a gust of wind, and a loud slap. Thranduil’s cheek stung as he came to, face to face with Sauron-Elros-Gorthaur-hisguard-theENEMY-Sauron-Elros-Sauron.

“Pull yourself together,” Elros snarled. Those eyes were, they consumed, they must, they could not. Eru and all the Valar combined, but Thranduil could not form one coherent thought. He tasted salt and shook as Elros raised his hand and slapped him again. Thranduil sank further into the mattress, meaning to disappear into it. But no such luck.

“Help,” he whimpered. Elros’ glare burned into him, Thranduil could feel himself shrivel, and sizzle, until at last, they glazed over, and went back to normal. Perfectly circular, brown irises. A pupil like any other. Bloodshot scleras and a shimmer of disdain. Thranduil gasped for air.

“That was unexpected,” Elros commented, and settled down beside Thranduil, hip bone digging into Thranduil’s side. “I thought you would rejoice.”

“He has possessed you?” Thranduil crawled his way back to reality. Elros sat beside him, distant worry on his features. Elros. Just Elros, no Sauron, no death. It had been a hallucination, or a test. If so, he had failed grandly. But the memories were too engrained, and they were separated from the affection he felt for Mairon. As though the Dark Lord Sauron, and his captor Mairon were two different personas. A foolish notion perhaps, but not one Thranduil could help.

“You still don’t understand?”

Understand what? Something about this was wrong, and Thranduil couldn’t put his finger on it. Elros, healthy and clean. Elros, whose personality seemed to shift with the hour. Elros, who had all but ruined Thranduil through the eyes of Sauron. Elros, who spoke to him in terms more familiar than even Feren or Galion would have dared. Elros, who looked at him with pity.

“Who are you?” Thranduil said.

“Ah, we’re getting there, very good, Thranduil,” Elros said, with a small smile. It didn’t fit him somehow, was too knowledgeable and wise for such a young face. For even though he was of Tauriel’s generation, Elros had always retained a sense of adolescence about him. This was miles off. Thranduil scoured his brain but came up with loose ends.

“Not Elros?”

“No. Dear Elros put up quite a fight, I’ll give him that. Killed an entire squad before Azog’s poor warg got her claws into him.” Elros (not Elros?) took Thranduil’s hand and pressed it against the marks on his throat. They were pink but closed. Frozen in time between wound and scar. “She has been so lonely ever since Azog bit the dust. Must have thought Elros to be a new toy.”

“You… the eyes… Mairon?”

“I thought I told you not to call me that,” Mairon said. He let go of Thranduil’s hand. Gave him a wide, toothy smile that screamed triumph.

“How can you defile him like this?”

“Thranduil, love,” Mairon purred as he bent over Thranduil. Thranduil felt caught in a hallucination, unreality coursing through him. But the touch of those hands was real. So real and so desperately needed. “Did you not want me to have a body? So, I may touch you the way you always imagined?”

“You have been him all this time?”

“Not just him. Think, Thranduil.” Mairon raised an eyebrow. The strings untangled, and the picture cleared. Thranduil’s eyes widened as he was pulled down the spiral.

Feren and his reckless devotion. Feren and his endless questions. Feren and his magically healed wrists.

 _A week has passed since then,_ he had said in answer to Thranduil’s shock, and Thranduil had believed him. How could he not? Feren and his gentle sorrow. Oh, Eru, no. And then another face like a ghost.

Lymerien and her haggard appearance. Lymerien and her insults. Lymerien, who could not have survived as long as she had. Supposedly had. By Eä and all the ages of the world. All along, Thranduil had been saner than he’d given himself credit for. It had been Mairon. Somehow that did not come as a surprise. He had but one question.

“What of Tauriel?”

“Too disfigured to be useful. Do not fret about it. I enjoyed being with you in those guises. Did you not enjoy my company?” Thranduil nodded. He wasn’t convinced, but he could never have denied Mairon his affirmation. Not when he looked at Thranduil as though he was a miracle, a gift. Feren had been dead. Lymerien had been dead. Tauriel had never returned to him. So what? They could not have minded, and in the end Thranduil had nothing of their company. He was right to mourn them in the first place, and he had mourned them again, but in the long run? No matter. What mattered was that Mairon had come back to his side, had once again worked to meet Thranduil’s needs. If that wasn’t blatant favoritism, even affection, well. It elevated him.

And though Mairon wore Elros’ smile, always on the verge of mischievous and arrogant, though it were Elros’ hands that now framed Thranduil’s face, wiped away the glamour he had cultivated for so long, Thranduil sighed and leaned into the touch. A burning mouth pressed against his own, tasting vaguely of smoke. Eyes like wildfire transfixed him. Thranduil’s lips parted easily, it had been too long. Not even the faint touches of Mairon’s feä could compare to this, the warmth, the proximity of a real body that hovered against his, that responded with its own sharp intakes of breath. His blood ignited, and his fingers grabbed at the uniform that still covered Elros’ chest. Mairon’s. Ah, well, technicalities. 

“Eager, are we not?” Mairon murmured against Thranduil’s mouth, then deepened their kiss. Thranduil felt intoxicated as his tongue found Mairon’s in slow swirls, as the Maia climbed on top off him. Thranduil regretted going to bed clothed as his cock throbbed in the confines of his breeches. It did nothing to think that they were of Mairon’s design when Mairon was here, body – borrowed or not, didn’t matter - jotting into place against Thranduil’s with a hard erection of his own that rubbed against Thranduil’s thigh as they kissed. They were kissing. They were. Together. Kissing.

Before long, Mairon pulled back. His hair was messy from Thranduil running his hands through it, his lips red and swollen. Thranduil didn’t dare to touch him, not with that gleam in his eyes, not when Mairon rolled his hips once, a controlled motion, but one that had Thranduil throw his head back and moan, as the friction caught him in all the right places.

“Help me along. What was it you wanted me to do again?” Mairon asked.

“I wanted you to take me.”

“Take you?”

“Master, I beg you. You know what I mean.”

“Help me along,” Mairon repeated and cupped Thranduil’s jaw, rolled his hips again, and then one more time. Thranduil blushed.

“To, uh, how do you say, uh. To fuck me.”

“Very well. Suck,” Mairon commanded and pushed his fingers into Thranduil’s mouth, while his other hand unlaced his own breeches then all but ripped Thranduil’s from his body. Doing his best not to buck his hips up, and to stay focused, Thranduil closed his tongue around the fingers, sucked at them and licked until they dripped with saliva. Mairon meanwhile had spread Thranduil’s legs and settled between them, his own cock pink and rigid against his stomach. Thranduil moaned again, thought that he’d rather have that in his mouth. But not enough to wait any longer for what was to come.

“Well done.” Mairon withdrew his fingers. “Now, close your eyes. Relax.” The feeling of Mairon’s fingers inside of him was not, as Thranduil had anticipated, peculiar, nor was it painful beyond a bit of unease. Because he already knew this. Even though Mairon wore a body now, Thranduil could feel him in the gaps, the dark curl of his feä that knew him so well, knew where to touch and shiver, and the warm fingers that guided it made the experience all the more sensual. Thranduil’s back arched off the bed as two, three of Mairon’s fingers worked on him, opened him up. Thranduil’s legs shook at the thought.

“Enough,” he gasped.

“If you say so.” Mairon shrugged and withdrew, crawled back on top off Thranduil and whispered against his ear. “You know you owe me.”

“Anything. Everything,” Thranduil said. And he meant it. If asked to retrace his steps, to reconstruct how he had ended up here, Thranduil would be at a loss. A year or two prior, this scenario would have been one not even his most abhorrent nightmares could have conjured, and now it was exactly where he belonged. To have Mairon claim him like this, to have him read his desires and fulfill them, was more than Thranduil deserved. Who cared about a kingdom when he could have this, a Maia, a celestial being to take him, and take him, and take him? On some bizarre level, Thranduil felt he understood Elwë who had traded his name and had forsaken his people for the love of one of these creatures. Thranduil would give Mairon the world and everything beyond for this moment. For Mairon to push into Thranduil, to fill him out and corrupt him once and for all. And so, he did.

“Don’t think I won’t collect.” A hiss like velvet. A holy vision. Salvation.

Mairon’s hand closed around his throat, closed off his air at the same time as he thrust into Thranduil, buried his cock all the way. Thranduil cried out soundlessly. Every bit of him was on edge, ignited with pleasure, as Mairon drew back to thrust again, and Thranduil struggled for breath. The skin of his throat hissed under the Maia’s fingers, hissed as the scent of burning flesh pervaded Thranduil’s nostrils. His own cock, untouched between them, ached and swelled. It all became a blur then, the heat, his blacked-out vision, the despair and desire. With every time Mairon drew back and slammed into Thranduil’s body, shapeless moans made his throat convulse. It was Mairon’s most exquisite torture yet, and Thranduil rapidly approached his own climax as their pace quickened, relentless. His lungs were on the verge of collapse when Mairon let go of his throat and jerked Thranduil’s head back by his hair. His hot tongue traced the edges of the handprint that Thranduil could still feel eating at his skin.

“Please,” Thranduil groaned. He tried to lift his hands off the sheets, to touch himself if Mairon wouldn’t do it. He needed his release more desperately than he could put into words. But it was as though he was bound, and he couldn’t even lift a finger. On top of him, Mairon didn’t seem out of breath though he was going at a breakneck speed. Hit Thranduil again, and again, and Thranduil’s insides clenched around him, and still he went on.

“Aren’t you desperate?” Mairon drawled. “Aren’t you a picture-perfect little slut for me?”

“Yes. Please.”

“Please what?”

_Anything. Everything._

Mairon dipped down to catch Thranduil’s lips with his own, nibbled at the bottom one and kissed him, rough and raw. His hand snaked down between them and wrapped around Thranduil’s cock. Stroked lazily and out of rhythm.

Thranduil held Mairon’s gaze, and as he could feel his orgasm, seconds away, could feel it built in the pit of his stomach and in his tense thighs, Elros’ eyes disappeared once more and Thranduil was faced with that fire, that fury, those black slits that were devastation and hatred and everything Thranduil feared. Thranduil’s heart stuttered, and Mairon grinned.

“Come for me, little eglath,” he said. “Now.”

And Thranduil did, reached his high with a scream that filled the room around them, and spilled all over himself and Mairon’s hand, transfixed by the flickering oranges and reds and yellows. Nowhere near the battlefield but thinking he had never seen anything more beautiful.

It was moments later, that Mairon’s whole body tensed up ever so slightly and he came too, with jerky and frantic thrusts that had Thranduil cry out again. Then, they collapsed together, entwined and heated and filthy, and oh wasn’t this exquisite.

“Thranduil, my love,” Mairon whispered, stroking Thranduil’s head. He hummed against the warm pillow. “I think it is time you went home.”


	18. Disguised

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song is 'Disguise' by Motionless in White. Hope you enjoy the chapter, we are getting closer to the real drama :D 
> 
> Tws: disfigurement, gore

_Spiraling inside my own disguise  
This is my design  
But we're not here together  
Mirror mirror, tell me who you see  
Am I you or me?_

And then a thing happened, of which Thranduil had surrendered every notion. Had thought wouldn’t come to pass ever since he had watched Feren die, Feren who hadn’t been Feren at all. He had been a symbol nonetheless, a point of no return. Looking back, it was easy to discern this and Thranduil felt a stir in chest at the thought. His heart, his treacherous heart ached for whither Mairon meant to go. Back, back to his halls and people. His son and subjects. Although he didn’t belong there anymore, although his place was here, on a hill that had been home once and now was again. Still, the idea of returning nagged at him, and as such Mairon’s scheme was welcome. To see Legolas one last time before the darkness took over… well. It was not a thought Thranduil could finish.

In his conviction, Thranduil also knew this: Greenwood the Great was dead, a part of history, a legacy soon forgotten. It would never rise again. Mirkwood it was and would be henceforth, and Mairon meant to speed up its decay, to perfect its transformation.

“And I can only do so much from these ruins,” Mairon said, as he stood behind Thranduil who was perched on a stool, and brushed out his hair, one at a time. It was like a dead-weight that tugged on Thranduil’s scalp and when he looked down at the newly trimmed strands, it looked dead too. Not bright and starlit like it used to, but the pale color of bone.

“And how will you accomplish it? They won’t take you as their king, not even as Elros.”

“No, they won’t. But conveniently, you already are their king.”

“Was. I’ve been gone for I can’t even tell how long,” Thranduil muttered, and weathered Mairon’s sigh. The brush fell away, and Mairon stepped around to crouch before Thranduil. Tied the laces on a pair of brown boots that were reminiscent of the ones Thranduil had worn when he’d come here, a lifetime ago. Like he was a puppet to be dressed and toyed with.

 _That is exactly what you are,_ he thought. _And you enjoy it._

“It is of no consequence,” Mairon said, straightening again once he was done. He pulled Thranduil to his feet. “It’s like you always said. Legolas wears the crown out of necessity. They’d all welcome you back, and once you’re reinstated, we have the power to seize the North. Don’t you trust me?”

_We. We have the power. Us. Us._

“I trust you,” Thranduil said, and no more. He slipped into the blue velvet tunic Mairon handed him, felt it scrape against the sore skin on his throat and unsettle the arrowhead. The arrowhead which hung like a chain around his neck, a token worn by a father long since passed. Legolas never got his shot at saving him, and it was all for the better. Thranduil’s hand moved to tear it off, but Mairon stopped him.

“Leave that be. You need to act as though you’re still a good-for-nothing Firstborn.”

Thranduil nodded, and went on to dress himself, slipped into his armor which looked as though it had been forged the day prior. Thranduil straightened. He felt huge dressed up like this, towered over Elros’ form. With a smile, Mairon brushed back a strand of hair that had fallen into Thranduil’s face.

“How do I look?” he asked. And Mairon, his Mairon, his master, the only reason to keep going, laughed. It was a clear, melodic sound and carried nothing of Elros’ dull voice.

“Beautifully horrifying,” Mairon said. “See for yourself.” He pulled Thranduil over to the tub that was filled with water from Thranduil’s last bath. The surface was still, and Thranduil caught his own reflection. It was not only his hair that lacked life. Half of his face was pallid, colored only where one dark circle hugged his good eye which looked back at him full of confusion.

 _I do not recognize this person_ , he thought as he touched his fingers to cheekbones that protruded sharply from paper thin skin. A faint scar ran through his eyebrow, splitting it in two. His neck was covered by a charred handprint, black and red around the edges.

“Should I cover the… this?” Thranduil gestured at the exposed side of his face where the dragon’s rage was still visible, after all these years. One eye, milky white, sinew and muscle molten together to a mess of flesh-colored strings pulled taut over broken and reknitted bone. Somehow, the sight of it made Thranduil feel empty. He was used to fits of rage, bouts of depression, even a proud sort of triumph at having bested the beast. Now? Nothing. Even if he’d wanted to put a glamour over it, he wasn’t sure he knew how.

“You need not hide anymore, love,” Mairon said. So, Thranduil didn’t. Instead, he tore his eyes away from his image and allowed himself one last look at the room. He ached to return to that bed, have Mairon ruin him again, and again, until his whole body was covered in those handprints, until Thranduil knew only pain and pleasure and nothing beyond it. No conscious thought left. But there were grander things at stake than his own needs, and Thranduil would have to earn Mairon’s attentions.

“I’m ready,” he said, and had never uttered a greater lie. 

“You better be.”

Together, they headed out. Out of this room, out of the tower, out into light and dust and skittering ruins. It was bright day, pre-noon and cheerful, and once again, the orcs hunkered in the shadows. Awed murmurs trailed after them, and Thranduil recognized the Black Speech word for master now, wished his earthly vocal cords would allow him to use it. He could rejoice only in the fact that Mairon left with him. He was a more valuable asset than every orc in this castle.

It was by the gate, the grating, rusty little gate that had sealed all their fates – Feren, Lymerien, Tauriel, Elros – that Thranduil hesitated. For the fraction of a second, and then he meant to go ahead and do it. Meant to.

“Thranduil.” A hand on his arm, to hold him back from this, the precipice of a new age for Thranduil, and the world. One more step to rewrite history. He didn’t feel grand, or proud, or ready at all. Thranduil felt sick. So sick that the next gust of wind would topple him over and have him vomit his meager breakfast all over the grass that swayed on the other side of the gate.

Mairon pulled him closer, and Thranduil bent down to let their foreheads fall together. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“I am weak,” he admitted. The words tasted like bile.

“Well, yes,” Mairon said, not without humor. “Which is why you need me.”

“I need you.”

“Come now, little eglath. Forfeit this thine legacy and rise to my side. I believe in you.” Mairon kissed him, strong and steady, and Thranduil could feel the panic recede. Ere he could kiss back, the contact was broken. A whole foot between them. Thranduil grunted in frustration. What would he have given to stay, stay in his humble room atop the tower with Mairon, and live out the rest of his miserable days like that.

 _Soon_ , he told himself _. When Mairon’s plans bear fruits and the sun sets for the last time. Soon._

“So, I will,” he said, and pushed the metal aside. The shift was palpable. Though much of this part of the forest was infected, and swathed in darkness, the air was clearer than inside of the dome around Dol Guldur. The sky was a vivid blue, and the sun shone so brightly that Thranduil couldn’t bear looking at it. Smells, a thousand of them, assaulted him. Trees, and grass, and the wind, and the rot. Flowers, and animal droppings. Carcasses and honey. He stumbled on the next step, then straightened himself.

Mairon came up to his side, his cheeks flushed.

“Well?” he asked, one eyebrow raised. Thranduil nodded, and they began their journey back. It was as uneventful, perhaps even more so than the journey towards the hill had been, and they passed it in silence. Dead leaves crunched under their feet and the closer they drew towards Thranduil’s realm, the livelier the trees got, even those covered in cobwebs. More dead bodies, spider and elf alike, littered parts of the woods. The sun had nearly disappeared by the time they reached the border, whether by tree or night, Thranduil couldn’t tell.

No hesitation this time. Just another line to step over.

Thranduil squared his shoulders and crossed the river with his head held high. His hand shook, uneasy for the lack of a sword. His senses, though dulled by his time in captivity, picked up on a few signs of life around them. Leaves that rustled too abruptly for the sound to be natural. The soft hiss of a bow being drawn. Thranduil gestured for Mairon to halt once they were on the other side of the bridge and held up a hand. There were at least three scouts in the trees around them, all with arrows trailed at his chest.

“Have you forgotten the face of your king,” Thranduil said, and the resulting intake of breath almost made him smirk. One of them took off, no pretense of subtlety anymore. The other two remained in their position. No sound of bows being lowered. “You would threaten me?”

Quiet. Then, a solemn voice.

“Do not begrudge us our doubt,” Galion said, as he slipped down from a branch, both his hands held out to show empty palms. His bow dangled on his back and the other archer withdrew deeper into the woods. Seconds later, Thranduil heard the tell-tale crack of a branch being stepped on. Only them and Galion now, and soon enough the whole palace would know. Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm, had returned.

“Galion.”

“Is it really you?” the elf choked out; eyes wide. They flitted over Thranduil’s form. Took in the scar-ridden face and then Mairon who stood behind. To Galion it was Elros at attention, Elros whose throat was covered in welts from claw marks, Elros who gave a noncommittal shrug.

“Yes.”

Galion let out a mangled sob and sank to his knees before Thranduil. Tears gleamed in his eyes.

“We had given up all hope,” he said. Another sob tore through him. Galion buried his face in his hands. “It is a miracle, oh Elbereth, thank you.”

“It wasn’t Elbereth who helped me escape.” Thranduil squeezed Galion’s shoulder before he walked past him. Walked into a realm that had once been his and would be his again, and Mairon’s. He felt nothing at the receding wails of his former butler. No trace of familiarity as the dirt under his feet formed well-known paths. Not a hint of joy as the trees parted to reveal the front gates of his palace. A palace that had once been fashioned in the likeness of Menegroth. And why? Why honor a king who had done nothing, but disappoint, forsake, abandon his people? Any trace of homesickness, of longing, was evaporated. This place was fake, wrong, it needed to go. Thranduil had half a mind to tear it down, when Mairon grabbed his arm.

“I know what this must be like for you,” he said under his breath. “And it will get worse. But you will have to keep face, Thranduil. We can fix this, but it will take time. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Thranduil said, and stepped foot onto the bridge that would lead him to destiny, or his downfall.


	19. Last Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some reunions ahead, I'm so sorry for what I'm doing to these characters, oh dear. Title is based on 'Last Light' by Bury Tomorrow. Great song from a fantastic Album. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy the chapter. :)
> 
> TWs: PTSD symptoms, torture flashbacks

_Have you ever laid on your back at night?  
Stared into darkened corners  
And seen faces of the dead alive?  
Apparitions of a tormented mind_

Before Thranduil could put his hands to them, the doors burst open to reveal two flushed guards who stared at him with expressions of equal amounts incredulity and fear.

“Mylord,” they both said, and jerked to attention, ramrod straight.

“At ease.” Thranduil raised his hand, and pushed past them, Mairon on his heel. His palace opened before him, bigger than he remembered it. Tree roots that arched overhead, wove together to create a vaulted ceiling, a maze of corridors to either side and before him a vast hall of brown and green, entwined wood and blankets of leaves. The air was humid and smelled of resin and bark, and the floors were well-swept. The sounds of daily life, rattles of doors, voices high and low, even the faint tune of a harp, barrels that splashed into the river deep below their feet, filled the space from root to crown. Thranduil took a deep breath and felt deprived of the dusty magic that had impregnated the air in Dol Guldur. There was no malevolence here, only naïve routine, and useless struggle. Soon, all this would perish.

“Mylord, may we escort you-“ The guards rushed up to him, but Mairon put himself between them and Thranduil, one hand on the dagger he had tucked into his belt.

“No,” he said. “I will take care of the king, you two go back to your duty.”

“And since when do you give orders around here?”

“Since I authorized it,” Thranduil said, and walked on, deeper into his own halls, towards a throne he had occupied for hundreds of years, towards the end of his reign.

He made it three strides down the path that would lead to it, when Legolas emerged from a twilit corridor, trailed by more guards who were out of breath. Thranduil stopped dead, and Mairon just managed not to run into him, took up a position by his side. All the years of his life couldn’t have prepared him for this.

Legolas was taller than in Thranduil’s nightmares. A trick of the light, perhaps, or the way he carried himself, chin tipped up, straight and with purpose. He wore a simple robe of green over a tight-sleeved brown shirt, and deer-skin breeches and boots. A circlet of silver, woven through with leaf-shaped emeralds, sat atop his brow. For all the youthful flush and features, his eyes had taken on a gravity that made him look more the part than Thranduil had ever felt. A king now, a king for the past months, but no more. Legolas, no matter how regal he looked, did not belong in the cage that was the life of a monarch. His place was out there, among the trees. Far-away from Mairon’s grasp.

“Ada?” Legolas gasped softly. “So, it is you. You… came back?”

Thranduil cocked his head and forced a smile onto his wasted features. By the flash of horror in Legolas’ wide-blown eyes, he wasn’t successful. What to say? Thranduil glanced over at Mairon, who stood a little behind, the perfect picture of stoicism. Hands clasped behind his back. A stranger in a guard’s body.

“Go on,” he hissed under his breath, and Thranduil returned his focus to Legolas who had come closer. He remembered a conversation a lifetime ago.

“You asked me to, did you not?”

“But you told me you couldn’t promise. You left and you were gone. How could I have believed?” Legolas clapped a hand over his mouth, but too late. All the air of haughtiness and commanding calm faded from him. Legolas was a child once more, despaired and young in the face of his father, whom he must have mourned and buried. Who had risen from the dead, half a ghost of the person he used to be.

_I should hug him_ , Thranduil thought numbly, and his skin crawled at the sight of Legolas’ tears. _It’s what any good father would do._

And then another voice: _but you have never been that._

Thranduil shook himself and took a tentative step. Opened his arms, and Legolas all but crashed into them, and broke into a series of wrecking sobs. Thranduil patted his back. Cradled his head against his shoulder and waited for it all to be over. Heat wafted off Legolas’ body and the proximity of him made Thranduil want to flee. Leave all this behind.

“I could never have left you,” he said, and it felt empty. His eyes met Mairon’s who gave him an almost imperceptible nod. “You are my whole world, Legolas. I could never have left you.”

“Three years,” Legolas sobbed. Held onto Thranduil for dear life. Thranduil’s blood froze.

“What?”

Legolas drew back a fraction to look his father in the eye. His were red and filled with more sorrow than Thranduil could comprehend. If only Mairon would get him out of this situation. If only they could have swapped places. The Maia was the better actor by leagues.

“You have been gone for three years.”

“So long?” he asked and glanced at Mairon once more. Elros’ form was stiff, and he stared straight ahead. Thranduil would have given anything to know what went on inside of his head, to know whether he did well.

“I suppose wherever he kept you did not allow for reason. I regret now that I never looked for you. After two months had passed, I’d assumed the worst. Forgive me.”

“I told you not to, and I stand by it,” Thranduil said, and this time his smile felt honest, no matter how ugly of a grimace it looked.

“Still, to think I carried on when all this time you were alive, suffering…”

“Do not blame yourself, little leaf. All that matters is that I made it, and that we are reunited.” Oh, dreadful lies, how easily they passed his lips. He hoped Mairon would be proud.

Legolas nodded and pulled him close once more, held him for a long minute, and in that time, Thranduil allowed himself a fraction of relaxation. Here he was, his son, once the light of his life. He was still so sweet and smelled of rain-kissed grass. A childish squeal rang through Thranduil’s mind.

_I love you more than Luthien loved Beren._

_I love you too, little leaf._

But the Thranduil who had spoken those words, an unmarred prince who had been happy, was long since dead. He could not conjure what he had felt back then. When Legolas let go of him, Thranduil was flooded with relief. Legolas bit his lip, filled to the brim with anxious energy which undoubtedly wanted out in the shape of a flood of questions. Thranduil had some of his own, pertaining to the state of things, but they were, both of them, interrupted.

“So, it is true.” A new voice, one that made Thranduil’s blood freeze. Deep as the void inside of him, and soft like well-worn leather. Both Legolas and Thranduil turned to find Bard emerging from another adjacent corridor. He wore almost casual clothes, and no crown. The streaks of gray in his hair had multiplied with time, but his face was as alive as ever. Bright with joy, and the first one who did not look at Thranduil with shock, not pained nor confused, nor revolted. But happy to see him.

“Thranduil,” he said with a smile, and walked up to them, put one hand to Thranduil’s shoulder and squeezed. “How good to see you in reasonable health.” At once, the memories assaulted Thranduil. His insides twisted and molten. His lungs on the verge of collapse. Bard’s voice meant that his eardrums would soon combust from the punishment of fire in his body. Bard’s face meant that upon the next blink his eyelids would sear shut. Bard here, in front of him, Bard being comprehended by him, all of it meant pain, burning, pain, fire.

_Renounce your affections_. Mairon’s voice clearer as his vision swam and blurred.

“Bowman,” he gasped. “Please.” The world tilted as black spots appeared everywhere.

“Ada?” A distant outcry. Hands all over him, and on the inside, he was dying, dying.

“Mylord.”

“Ada, what is it?”

“Please.”

A shockwave through his mangled body as he hit the ground. He couldn’t breathe, see, hear, live. He would die. And then, through the haze of agony, a new voice, clear as fresh water and balm to his aches.

“Let him go,” Mairon said, and the hands disappeared, were replaced by Mairon’s. “And get the human out of here. Mylord, can you hear me?”

Thranduil took gulping breaths as the panic receded, and his surroundings came into focus again. Above him, Mairon wore a perfectly composed expression of concern, but in his eyes Thranduil could see the fury blossoming. Whatever had just happened, Thranduil had messed up. Already.

“I am-“ he started.

“Hush.”

“Elros, what is going on?” Legolas asked, and crouched down beside Thranduil, put a hand to his forehead.

“Remnants of his trauma. The sight of King Bard may have triggered a memory of torture perhaps. Our captor has not been kind to us, you see.”

“No, of course not.” Legolas and Mairon both helped Thranduil to his feet, one a whirlwind of emotions, the other a beacon for Thranduil to sail towards. Only this morning, Thranduil had woken up, sated and well-rested in a place that had contained his best and worst. He missed its comforts and boundaries. Here, he was way out of his depths, and all he wanted was to clamber back ashore, towards that distant tower. No such luck.

“Should I apologize?” Bard asked, weary and confused. He stood apart from them and searched Thranduil’s face for something but seemed to come up short. Legolas put a hand to Bard’s arm.

“Of course not, my friend. My father needs some rest, he must have been through quite a lot.”

“I understand.” With a nod, not unkind, Bard disappeared, leaving behind an atmosphere of tense unease.

“I will bring the king to his quarters,” Mairon said, and laced his arm through Thranduil’s to steady and guide. Thranduil leant heavily on him.

“Let me-“ Legolas began, but Thranduil gave him as much of a sharp look as he could muster.

“I trust Elros. He understands.”

“Alright.” Legolas hesitated, then bowed his head and so did the guards. “We will speak in the morning?”

“Yes.”

“Well then. Welcome home.”


	20. Mercy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song is Mercy by The Ghost Inside. Hope you enjoy the chapter :) thank you to everyone who's been reading, liking and commenting, it really motivates me, especially now that we're entering the last third of the story. 
> 
> Tws: physical violence, manipulation, sexual content, humiliation

_There's a hurricane raging inside me. The second wave is right there behind me.  
Don't leave me alone, as this fire burns whole. Before there's nothing left to atone.  
Breathe new life into me. Send waves to crash right through me.  
I wear the perfect disguise, right behind my eyes._

The air in the room was fresh, the surfaces dusted and polished, as though it had been yesterday that Thranduil had last entered it. He suspected Galion, what with the immaculately made bed and fluffy pillows. Thranduil’s favorite blue quilt covered it. His robes sat folded atop his dresser; his crown next to them. There was a decanter of water on the table and two cups. Like he had been expected. Thranduil made a strangled noise as Mairon pushed him forward and into it.

“You,” he said through gritted teeth and turned on Thranduil once the door was shut. His cheeks glowed with a vengeful spark. Thranduil sank down onto the bed, strange to him in its comforts and smells. Too soft, too fresh, too luxurious. It would be hell on his back. “You utter, useless, pathetic, stupid, weak fool.”

“I’m sorry,” Thranduil replied. He hung his head, worked to dispel the remnants of the sensations Bard’s face had brought upon him. It was all too much because Bard here, Bard acting like Legolas’ friend, Bard at leisure in these halls, meant that Mairon had been right all those long months ago. Bard meant to usurp Thranduil’s kingdom. Men, it seemed, would never rise above their animalistic greed that had forfeit any trust or truce. It had been like this with the Númenoreans, it would be like this again. Which was why Thranduil needed Mairon to succeed. Men. Dirty and disgusting. Always taking, taking, taking. Thranduil bit back on an angry outcry.

“On your knees.” Mairon pointed at the floor in front of him, and Thranduil obliged. “Now, look at me.” Again, he did as told and was met with a face so contorted in unnatural, celestial anger that he flinched. Neither Elros nor Mairon now, but something more ancient and violent, something not even the deepest pits of Mordor could hope to hold. “Explain.”

“A slip-up. A relapse so to speak. Do you not remember the torture you had me endure at the expense of my connection with Bard? It resurfaced upon seeing him.”

“The torture I had you endure? Have you learnt nothing?” And Mairon grabbed Thranduil’s jaw with both hands, then drew his leg back and kicked him in the stomach. Thranduil gasped and gurgled, wanted to curl in on himself for protection, but was held in place by hands that were not warm or sizzling, but as cold as the snow that had covered peaks of the Thangorodrim, ages before. Thranduil had been fascinated by them, in a way he would have never dared to speak aloud.

_Now you can. Now you can-_

His thought was drowned out by another shock wave of pain as Mairon’s hands closed around Thranduil’s throat and the sensitive skin of the handprint. He struggled for air as he was lifted off his knees, then thrown to the ground. It was all he could do catch himself on his hands and protect his head.

“I gave you freedom from him, Thranduil. Respite. And you would throw it away upon the first look of him you get? Your dedication seems to be in a precarious state.”

“No,” Thranduil sobbed. This was all wrong. What he had said to Bard had been an echo, faint and soon forgotten. Unimportant, a mechanism of his brain, no more. He hadn’t meant to say it. His devotion hadn’t wavered. If Mairon could return to his mind, poke around in it, he would know. Thranduil’s mouth betrayed him in his effort to communicate his shame.

“No?”

“I-“

_I cannot put into words what it means to me to be your servant._

_I cannot hope to reconcile this disagreement with my feeble talents._

_I cannot make more promises for I am sure to fail every last one of them._

_I simply cannot._

“You regret what happened.”

“Yes.”

“You ought to be punished.”

“Yes.”

“You belong to me.”

“Always.”

“I said, on your knees,” Mairon said, and kicked Thranduil again. His foot connected with Thranduil’s shin and he bit down on his tongue. The taste of copper filled his mouth and he scrambled to his knees ere Mairon could continue. “Very good. Now, hands to the ground. _Look at me_.” Thranduil struggled to hold Mairon’s gaze, as Mairon crouched down, but was soon pacified, when Mairon exposed his teeth in a wide grin. “Just what am I going to do with you. Was I too soon to go forward with these plans? Can you not hold your own?”

“I can. I will. I will not disappoint you.”

“Good. Turn around,” Mairon said. Thranduil did and let Mairon push him down until his palms and cheek were flush against the rug, a position of utter submission. He felt comfortable like this, nothing to worry about. With Mairon to treat him as he would, even in punishment. Blood rushed to his groin at the thought and he couldn’t help a small shudder.

“My, you are insatiable.”

Thranduil said nothing. Did nothing, as Mairon wrapped his arms around Thranduil’s middle and hugged him, hands wandering over the bulge of his half-erection.

“I suppose I could try and fuck some sense into you,” Mairon murmured and undid the lacings of Thranduil’s breeches with nimble fingers. Thranduil whimpered. “Hungry little eglath, always yearning for me, are you not?”

“Yes. Yes, please,” Thranduil said.

“What do we say?”

“Please, master.”

“That’s right.” Mairon pulled down Thranduil’s breeches and spread his legs, leant back. Thranduil missed the touch, the proximity, but dared not protest. There was a hurricane in his stomach, and it raged and thrashed in desperation. Destroyed his sanity bit by bit until he fell into an animalistic state that was all want, need, have to, please, take me. Thranduil cried out as Mairon’s fingers pushed into him without warning, warm and wet by whatever magic the Maia had at his disposal. Scissored him open with brutal ferocity and gave him seconds to adjust before another finger penetrated him and then, as quickly as it had begun, Mairon withdrew. Thranduil panted into the rug, his cock painfully swollen. He needed this. All his anxiety, his apathy, had faded. This was Mairon’s power, to control Thranduil’s emotions in the best way possible. Thranduil wanted more.

“You will not slip up like this again,” Mairon said, and grabbed a fistful of Thranduil’s hair, tugged hard on it. “You will not compromise our mission.”

“Affirmative.”

“You will do as I tell you and not let some maggot of a man cross our plans.” Mairon’s cock pushed against Thranduil, and his lips fell open with another whimper.

“Yes.”

“Swear it.”

“I swear it.”

“Good,” Mairon said. With one long push of his hips, he buried himself in Thranduil’s body. The storm roared, consumed him. Thunder rumbled in his chest as Thranduil’s vision went white. On the next impact he had all but forgotten where he was, forgotten everything that had led him here. Nothing mattered outside of the slide of Mairon against him, the rhythmic impact of their bodies, the whirlwind in his stomach that soared ever higher. Thranduil let himself be swept off by it until a new sensation appeared.

The handprint on his throat flared up, smoldered away his skin and airways until Thranduil gargled and wheezed. The pain tightened, mingled with the one on his scalp and the fierce burn of Mairon’s cock thrusting into him, again and again, splitting him open with the violence of his movements. It was agony and ecstasy, so brilliantly entwined that Thranduil could not tell them apart any longer and it mattered not. He moaned and in response, Mairon jerked his head back even farther so he could make no more sound.

“You will not,” Mairon growled, “Slip up like this again.”

Thranduil rolled his hips backward, the only leeway he had to convey his agreement. His lungs ached as his heart hammered against his ribcage. No air, no room.

_Please_ , he thought. _Please never stop._ _Please let this be my last moment upon Eä_.

Something in his neck creaked as Mairon pulled on his hair, rutted into him with reckless abandon. 

“You will not compromise our mission.” With a thud, Thranduil’s face hit the ground again, as Mairon let go of him to get a better grip on his hips, steady his harsh thrusts. Thranduil drank in the air and breathed out long, low moans. His cock leaked and strained, and Thranduil could feel his orgasm built up, built all the way from the depth of the tempest to his tight balls. And then, Mairon stopped. Stopped all movement, and pulled back, out, away. Thranduil spluttered. When he looked around, up, Mairon towered over him, picture-perfect composure. His breeches laced and no sign that he had just engaged in any sort of sexual activity. A snarl twisted his features.

“Let this be your punishment,” Mairon said, spat at Thranduil and strode out of the room.

Thranduil ached. He curled in on himself, cheeks aflame, and sniveled into the fading day light. He shivered with the icy pain of rejection and abandonment. Still, his cock throbbed. The humiliation was complete when Thranduil put a hand to it and came after two, three sorry strokes. Ashamed and undone he lay there and did not get up until the morning when Galion came knocking. As though nothing had changed.


	21. Black and Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter is based on the song by Crystal Lake, I hope you enjoy the chapter :) Naturally, I've taken some liberties with Mirkwood's laws. Tolkien's given us a lot of leeway in that regard which sometimes annoys me and sometimes comes in very handy. 
> 
> TWs: PTSD symptoms, sexual content

_Scars won't go away_   
_Unless you start to live with it_   
_Override (to) overdrive_

“Mylord?” Galion asked, his voice muffled through ancient wood. Full of morning cheer, and eagerness to go back to duties he had forsaken.

“Give me a moment,” Thranduil called back hoarsely. He pried himself off the ground and stretched his tight muscles, limbs paralyzed from hours curled up in the same position. “Come to think of it, prepare a bath for me please.”

“Yes, mylord.”

Galion’s footsteps retreated and Thranduil allowed himself a long, shaky sigh. There was a stain on the rug where Thranduil had spilled his release and he was rumpled and dirty, smelt of sour sweat and fear. A bath was exactly what he needed to be rid of the grime of the night and do away with his lingering shame.

Thranduil slipped out of his clothes and into a robe. There was nothing he could do about the rug except to hope that Galion would take it for meager vomit or not dare to mention it. He shoved that worry aside and left his chambers, headed down the corridor, past Legolas’ room and Tauriel’s, to the end of the hall where his bath chamber was situated. The door was wide open and Galion, quick and efficient, had filled the tub with water. Steam curled above it.

“I will wait outside if you need anything, mylord,” Galion said, and bowed.

“Thank you.” Thranduil waited for him to leave the room before he disrobed. The air was thick with chamomile and lavender and rich herbs. He climbed into the tub. The tension in his body released, and he submersed, then came up for air, his head tipped back. It was only once the water had settled, and he was relaxed that he felt the other presence in the room. A testament to his withered skills.

“Good morning, master,” he said. “You grace me.”

Mairon emerged from the shadows of the chamber as though he had manifested within them, his arms crossed and his face blank. He walked over and perched on the rim of the tub. Thranduil sank deeper into the water, until his neck was covered. The hot water, the scents and herbal infusions, did wonders on the healing burn mark which was irritated after yesterday’s ministrations.

“What have we learned?” Mairon asked and put two fingers under Thranduil’s chin.

What had he learned indeed? Thranduil had spent the whole night in shame. Had mulled over self-deprecating thoughts and had indulged in feeling sorry for himself. It was obvious where he had failed, and yet he felt mistreated by his own mind. It had been through no active behavior of his that he had slipped up as such. His brain was bound to recognize Bard, for good or worse, and in a moment of panic, he had lost control. Simple. Fatal. He resolved to do better, to gain composure, unwavering like steel and mithril. Mairon was right, Thranduil was not worthy of a position as second-in-command, when a mere man had him on his knees with naught but a smile. Thranduil forced himself to remember. To see Bard’s face in with his inner eye and to hear him speak.

_Thranduil. It is good to see you in reasonable health._

Not too bad. Thranduil’s guts spasmed in protest, and he felt sick, but that was all. He looked up at Mairon and smiled, opened his mouth to speak-

 _Do you love me?_ Shiny eyes full of hope, two heartbeats in tandem, two souls interconnected in a conversation years before. An almost plunge into the deep seas as Thranduil had replied – farewell, meleth – and if Bard had but spoken the slightest bit of Sindarin, it would have taken them there. To the depths of the Great Sea, where they would have been chained, but chained together.

 _He speaks Sindarin now_ , Thranduil realized with horror and his smile died. _He must know what it meant._

Love – and then the fire was back, assaulted him. The hot bath water was uncomfortable, fueled it, as Thranduil fell apart, to ashes and dust. Naught more but a charred spot on the history of this realm, a mistake Mairon had made. A foolish investment.

“This is no good,” Mairon said and slapped him back into reality. “You cannot keep relapsing like this. From what I gather Bard is permanently installed here at court, you will have to keep face.”

“As what?” Thranduil asked, caught off-guard. “As king he cannot-“

“He has passed on the crown to his son. I cannot discern why yet, but that is a matter of time, and I’ve no doubt it is part of some scheme to take over Mirkwood. For now, he is Dale’s ambassador and chief advisor to your son. Better than I had given him credit for, it’s a powerful position.”

“Let us be rid of him then.”

“Soon, love,” Mairon murmured and leaned down to press a kiss to Thranduil’s lips. Thranduil melted into it, moved with Mairon for a small eternity before the Maia drew back.

“Forgive me, master,” Thranduil said.

“I forgive you. Now, I understand there is to be some sort of ceremony to reinstate you?”

“Yes,” Thranduil said. He hadn’t thought about it until now, but there was a subclause to the succession laws Oropher had established with the foundation of his kingdom. Incidentally, he had prepared for just such a case that a king was lost but his body never found, or a mission went awry. Unsurety could become a people’s doom, but not with these regulations. The king’s heir would be crowned and acted as interim ruler until the death of the prior king would be confirmed or he returned. Upon his return, the people had to collectively decide to take him as their king once more. It was a symbolic ritual more than anything, but Thranduil knew it would be important. A signal to return to the normal and known. Followed by a great celebration. The last thing Thranduil wanted and needed was a revel, people and music and alcohol to drown him, but there was no choice in the matter. Not when Mairon smirked at him like he had a brilliant idea.

“What do you mean to do?” Thranduil asked, and rose from the bath, wrapped himself in a cotton towel, and called for his butler to bring him some clothes.

“Tell me about the ceremony? How does it work?” Mairon took another towel and dried Thranduil’s hair with it, stayed close, his breath hot against Thranduil’s neck. Thranduil felt weak-spirited and was about to ask Mairon to finish what he had started last night, when the door opened and Galion came in, his arms full of clothes. Thranduil’s favorite scarlet overcoat among them.

“Here you are- Elros?”

“Just put them over there,” Thranduil said. He pointed to a bench in the corner, and Galion furrowed his brows, but did as told “Thank you, that will be all.”

“But mylord-“

“You should recognize a dismissal by your king,” Mairon hissed, and Galion flinched.

“Of course,” he muttered, retreated. “Forgive me.” The door closed again and Mairon cackled.

“Stupid dog,” he said against Thranduil’s skin as he placed small kisses along the line of his shoulder. Thranduil felt his chest expand as his heart fluttered. He smiled.

“Galion is harmless.”

“Let us hope it stays that way,” Mairon replied and turned Thranduil in his arms, pulled him in for another long kiss that started as an innocent press of lips and ended with Thranduil’s back to the nearest wall, panting and flushed. The towel had since fallen away, and Mairon had pressed one of his thighs between Thranduil’s, licked into his mouth. Thranduil moaned and wrapped his arms around Mairon to get him closer. His nerve ends howled in pleasure.

“Here is how this will work. You tell me about this ceremony of yours, and if your information is useful, I will reward you,” Mairon said, nosing Thranduil’s cheek and bit down on his earlobe, gentle enough for it to produce shudders all along his spine. Then, he sank down in front of Thranduil, sank onto his knees until his shiny pink lips were only an inch or so from the head of Thranduil’s cock which twitched at the sight. What had he done to deserve such attention? Only hours before, he had assumed Mairon would never touch him again

“Why?” he asked.

“An incentive. To play nice and behave around the human.” Mairon underlined this argument by grabbing Thranduil at the base and licking a hot line up the shaft. Thranduil moaned and pressed his palms against the wall behind him to steady himself.

“It is quite simple,” Thranduil said. “I take my position on the throne and give a speech. Why I am still qualified, I suppose, it’s not like this has happened before. Then, I ask them whether they agree to take me back as their king.” 

“Go on,” Mairon said, and closed his lips around Thranduil’s cock, took him into his mouth in an agonizingly slow movement. His knees buckled.

“When they do, I ask Legolas if he too agrees and wishes to hand back the scepter, metaphorically speaking – ah, yes.”

Mairon steadied himself on Thranduil’s thigh with a warm hand and sucked him off, head bobbing back and forth. Everything in Thranduil screamed for him to grab Mairon’s head and abuse his mouth, but he dared not. The wanton noises he made echoed in the small bath chamber and he prayed to Eru that Galion hadn’t lingered. One of the few shortcomings of such enclosed a palace was this: gossip spread like the wildfire Mairon created within Thranduil with his tongue and teeth. Sharp nails drew angry red lines down Thranduil’s thigh, glorious pain to perpetuate his tumble into lunacy. All the heavenly choirs of Valinor, all the promises of eternal bloom and immortal starlight could not compare to this. They faded next to the beauty of Mairon’s flushed cheeks and eager tongue. Never before had Thranduil been so grateful to have stayed. He went on.

“If, uh, if Legolas agrees, no please don’t stop. If Legolas agrees he will crown me. Then, hngg, we will feast together.”

Mairon hummed, and picked up the pace, his hand worked in the same rhythm as his mouth.

“Please,” Thranduil whined. “Please, master.” Mairon sucked harshly, and Thranduil came with a cry, pressed as hard into the wall as he could so as not to lose his footing against his twitching muscles. His bones had liquefied. More than a gift by Mairon’s hands, a hellish miracle that had him intoxicated and grinning. Elated like he hadn’t felt in years.

“This should encourage you,” Mairon said and licked his shiny lips. He got to his feet and pointed at the stack of clothes that still sat abandoned atop the wooden bench. “Get dressed, I have an idea.” A wink.

“What idea?”

“Trust me.”

With that, he walked out on Thranduil for the second time in the span of a day, not leaving him bereft and broken, but full of life. He could do this. Reclaim his throne with poise and spit at Bard’s sorry aspirations. 

Thranduil wore his robes as armor as he ascended the dais. His heart hammered and pleaded, and he had to focus hard on the steps under him lest he stumble and make a fool of himself. Again. Once he sat, Thranduil let his eyes wander over the crowd that had gathered on the platform below and extended down the walkway that lead to the throne. Hundreds upon hundreds of faces. Thranduil remembered every one of them and remembered his resolve to safe them. Oropher’s credo came back to him, buzzed around his head like stubborn mosquito.

_You never abandon your people for matters of the heart, Thranduil._

The very foundation upon which this kingdom had been built. What an utter halfwit his father had been. Though Thranduil wore his rings now, thick gems that enabled him to feel the life forces of the forest and the tendrils of ichor that slowly sucked it out, he felt no connection to Oropher, not anymore. These were his people and he doubted that they remembered much of a king who had so stubbornly lead them into a death trap. Thranduil smiled and raised his hand. At once, the talk ceased.

Many stared up at him with mixed expressions of awe, joy, and horror. He had done nothing to conceal his maimed face. This was who he was now, scars, blind eye, handprint and molten muscle. A ruined king. They had no choice but to accept it.

Legolas, bearing Thranduil’s long abandoned crown of twigs and leaves on a velvety pillow, and Bard stood at the forefront of this crowd. Mairon had joined the ranks of the guards that were stationed at the base of the throne.

“My friends,” Thranduil said, and stood. In one fluid motion the crowd pressed their fists to their hearts, down to the last elf. Even Bard who wore a soft expression of serenity and pride. When their eyes met, Thranduil felt as though the ground was ripped from underneath him. Bard gave him an encouraging nod, and Thranduil managed to swallow the nausea. He focused instead on Legolas as he spoke, a little easier. “Three years ago, I set out with four others to defeat the Necromancer and rid our forest of his vile corruptions. I meant to save this kingdom. A fool’s errand, I now realize, one that cost us the lives of dear friends and permanent injury to Elros-“ Thranduil gestured at the elf in question and a soft hiss of lamentations traversed the sea of faces before Thranduil spoke again “-and myself. I cannot claim to have harmed the one who calls himself the Necromancer and whom I have gotten to know as Sauron.” Gasps, shuffling, a few outcries of rage and fear. Thranduil smiled. “Fret not. For even though my mission has failed it was not for nothing. I pray that you can forgive me for where I have erred and accept me as your king once more. I promise to fight this war with a firm hand and a stout heart. I promise not to lose another life where it can be preserved. Tauriel, Lymerien and Feren will be remembered and properly laid to rest, but their sacrifice will not be in vain. They have made it possible for me to glean vital information on Sauron’s plans. His forces, his infrastructure. I know now how to defeat him, I know that we can. If you allow me another chance, we will prevail.”

Cheers, like an earthquake shook the ground and air, and filled Thranduil’s head in an assault. It responded with a faint ache that slowly, but surely deconstructed him. He hoped to extinguish it with a goblet of wine later. The first and last one he would allow himself. Too dangerous, too soon. Not with Mairon here to degrade him again, and Legolas and Bard watching so closely for any sign of his lingering lunacy.

“I ask all of you, my friends,” Thranduil shouted, raising his voice over the noise, voices and whistles and shouts and claps. It was overwhelming. Too loud, too soon. He was not ready for this. Thranduil took a deep breath, could almost taste the excitement and pure life force assembled before him, like sunshine and wild berries. Steadied himself with one hand on the armrest of his throne. “Will you accept me as your king once more? Will you follow me?”

_Into doom and death, into the very fire at the core of the earth with which we will drown this land? Will you watch the trees wither and the seas dry out and all the heavens come crashing down upon us? Will you take up your arms and slay your kin as once ours has been slain by nobler and lesser elves?_

The throne shook as the crowd boomed one collective affirmative. Thranduil’s eyes locked onto Legolas’ once more as the angle prevented him from finding Mairon’s hooded gaze, and his throat tightened to find tears streak his son’s cheeks. Tears accompanied by a quivering smile. Bard, next to him, had his eyes closed and murmured something under his breath. Legolas replied and Thranduil felt a pang of melancholy at the sight. Why did he have to be up here alone when they got to conspire down there. It was more than unfair, an insult. Lonely was the life of a king, but oh Thranduil was the most blessed creature in this hall, what with Mairon taking him as his devoted servant. If only Mairon could stand up here with him, a preview of the world’s fate.

When the noise died down, Legolas rolled his shoulders backwards and Thranduil descended. He felt fatigued and weary, but ready for this crown, more ready than he had been upon his first coronation where he had been filled to the brim with grief. Had cried as Elrond had muttered words of comfort and advice, as the half-elf had placed another crown, Oropher’s crown of molten and re-forged sunlight and bloody rubies, on his head. Had held little Legolas against his chest all throughout the ceremony, not knowing who of them needed the comfort more. Now, Legolas was grown and Thranduil needed nothing from him. He managed the stairs without the slightest slip, passed Mairon and the other guards, and stopped before his son who cried still.

“Do you accept me as your king?”

“Ada, of course,” he said. “May I?” Thranduil nodded and Legolas handed Bard the pillow and took the crown into steady hands. Lifted it halfway-

“Allow me,” Mairon cut in and stretched out his arms with a sugar smile. Waited for Legolas to hand over the crown.

“Excuse me,” Legolas spluttered. Lowered the crown once more, a furrow deep between his brows.

“Allow me this honor. I have saved his life and helped him out of that nasty hole. I should like to see his return through to the end.”

It started as a whisper, a faint gust of exhaled air, but quickly turned into troubled murmurs and gasps like question marks. More than a deviation from etiquette, Mairon had all but insulted Legolas. Metaphorically slapped him across the face. This was not how things were handled in the Greenwood, not by far.

 _Ah well_ , Thranduil thought. _This is not the Greenwood anymore. We play by new rules now._

“But it is customary for me-“

“Legolas,” Thranduil interrupted. “Allow him.”

“But ada-“

“As a gesture of gratitude. He did save my life. We should all thank him for it. It is a small thing, no?” The flickers of emotion on Legolas’ face – confusion, hurt, anger, more tears – confirmed what Thranduil knew at heart. It was no small thing. It was a gesture grand, and significant. It was ranking Elros’ privileges higher than Legolas’ station as former king and crown prince. It would have driven Oropher to fits, a prospect that ignited a small flicker of guilt in the back of Thranduil’s mind, but not enough to discourage. Never enough.

Bard shuffled on his feet, looked like he wanted to say something. Thranduil glared him into silence, and with Bard’s retreat, a hush fell over the room, settled like a thick fog that was impenetrable and all encompassing.

Mairon took that moment to pick the crown out of Legolas’ hands and place it gently atop Thranduil’s head, careful not to upset his hair, or graze his wasted side. For the split second that Mairon’s fingers brushed his skin, Thranduil felt a surge of power rush through his body. Mairon winked at him, then turned away, towards the others.

“Your king,” he said and clapped. It was a lonely sound that echoed through the vast chamber before the crowd joined in with cheers. “Mylord, shall we open the feast?” Another cheer at these words. Thranduil wanted to snigger. How foolish and blind these people were. How unprepared for what they had sworn to do.

“Yes,” Thranduil replied, and made for the space where the crowd had parted to let him through.

“Thranduil,” Bard said under his breath as he walked past him and made to grab his arm, but Thranduil dodged away with a frozen smile. “May I have a word with you?”

“You would not keep him from his subjects, would you?” Mairon cut in. “I am sure whatever it is you mean to speak to him about can wait until the morning.”

“You forget your station, Elros,” Legolas hissed and put a hand on Bard’s shoulder.

“Stop it, all of you,” Thranduil said, “Bard, come find me in the morning if you must. Let us celebrate in peace.” Bard nodded, but his mouth was set, and Legolas scowled at Mairon. No one dared to speak another word though, and they all trailed after Thranduil. Mairon at ease, and Bard and Legolas tense and eerily quiet.

It was a fine enough feast and Thranduil was proud at how well he managed it. The food was rich and savory, the company cheery but subdued. Not a full-blown party. Tunes like the awakening forest after a long winter filled the air. A gentle harp, a wooden flute that chirped like an excited lark. Thranduil, though he trembled in fear of another relapse, contributed his fair share of conversation. He was acutely aware of how everyone skittered along his edges, tried not to mention anything pertaining to his captivity. He was glad for it for by the end of the night, his tongue felt leaden and thick with lies. His throat swollen by their poisonous nature. To be met with such blatant trust, with honest cheer upon his return upset his stomach. Mairon was a shadowy character, invisible among the dancers, and silent among the singers. No one spared him a second glance after their first one had passed him by and that was well. It was enough for him to be there, to catch Thranduil’s eye across the torch-lit hall. It was, everything considered, a success, and when Thranduil fell into his bed that night, pulling Mairon down with him, he fell asleep instantly. He’d been right, the springy mattress was hell on his back, but he slept like a rock anyway.

The next morning, Bard did not come calling, and Thranduil never found out what it was he had wanted to speak about.


	22. Save Yourself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My brain is mush from exams, but since the rest of this fic is written and ready to go, I'm planning to post the remaining chapters before the weekend and then I'll be off on vacation thank god. Hope you enjoy the last third :) 
> 
> Title is based on the song 'Save Yourself' by Make Them Suffer. This song makes me cry everytime I listen to it so do it at your own risk :D

_It's toxic, it's noxious, Ironically honest_   
_Get out tonight, don't say farewell_   
_Run for your life, go Save Yourself_

Soon after, Thranduil returned to a life he had grown out of. The life of King Thranduil, who worked to preserve his kingdom, when really, he wanted to tear it down. Who feigned love for his subjects, when the truth was, he loathed them for standing between him and what he aimed for. He did it not with ease, but with a clumsiness he had not experienced since his coronation day.

When Mairon slipped out of his room in the morning, just before Galion came in with a cup of herbal tea and fresh robes, Thranduil went through the motions without much thought or feeling. He rarely attended breakfast with Legolas and Bard as it made him feel physically sick to be in their combined presence, to see them be merry with each other and so at ease when Thranduil himself was high-strung and vibrating with anxiety. Galion had to brush his hair for Thranduil’s hands shook too badly for him to do it himself. Had to help him into his clothes. Had to crown him, again and again. Mairon let this happen under the guise of normality, but every day Thranduil wanted to chase his butler out of his room and call for Mairon until he came back and talked him out of his fears.

After, there were consultations. Thranduil sat atop his throne, tried everything in his power to keep a regal, relaxed posture. He got words mixed up, names mixed up. Gave orders to forge a new batch of swords to the elf who was responsible for agricultural concerns. Mairon was there, but so were others, and so it was only the memory of Mairon’s reassuring words from the night prior that kept Thranduil upright through the day.

He skipped lunch in favor of sword practice with Mairon and whoever else was around. Gradually, he regained his physical strength, crawled back to combat peak.

“Very good,” Mairon would say whenever Thranduil hit him, not even out of breath after they had sparred for a good hour. “I need you in top form.” And his praise would give Thranduil a new spurt of energy.

Afternoons were spent with different matters. He wrote letters, visited his subjects. Oversaw archery training and listened to Legolas’ endless reports on casualties, ranks, weapons, promotions, enemy sightings, patrol schedules. Numbers upon numbers, until his head swam with them and Thranduil wondered how he had gotten so bad at all of this. Neglect of the mind had only a small role to play in this series of failings.

Bard he avoided as much as possible in physical form and in thought. He was not an imminent threat, not when Thranduil had so easily regained control over the dealings of his kingdom, and as such could be neglected. Whenever they did cross paths, Bard tried to make conversation, idle or businesslike, but he never crossed the threshold of personal for which Thranduil was more than grateful. He felt threadbare in the man’s presence.

Dinner Thranduil sometimes skipped too, sometimes managed to sneak into his quarters. On some evenings though, Legolas was too persistent, and Thranduil gave in. Sat at a table with him and Bard, and failed in all conversational subjects, at this point of the day too tired to feel anything but anticipation for the moment he could return to his chambers were Mairon would wait for him. When they exchanged reports of progress, when Mairon rewarded or punished him, when they made plans for the days to come. Given he made it through the meals without another breakdown Mairon would be furious over.

The one part Thranduil managed well was the merciless coolness with which he made most decisions. Not inconsiderate, but efficient, the most beneficial to his cause. They were Mairon’s instructions, of course, but Thranduil managed to deliver them as though they were his own. It was an easy enough mask, or maybe no mask at all but his true self.

And so, it went, day by day. The repetition, the rigid motions, soothed Thranduil. Almost made him forget that he wasn’t happy here.

Thranduil was busy in the antechamber of the stables one afternoon, more than a month after his return, hunched over a report by Brithon on their horse stock, too few, too old, when his routine was harshly broken. The door banged open with a crash, and Legolas strode into the room. Took up position in front of the table Thranduil leaned on, and bristled.

“What is this?” he asked without any word of greeting. The arrowhead dangled from his fist which trembled, mid-air between them, and his eyes were tear-stained and red. Thranduil straightened himself and folded his hands.

“It is the arrowhead you gave me. The first you-“

“The first I hit bull’s eye, yes I know.” Legolas slammed it down onto the table and started to pace the perimeter of the antechamber. His cheeks were blotchy and Thranduil furrowed his brow. Scoured through his memory for what he might have done wrong in regard to the token. He didn’t wear it now, but Legolas couldn’t expect that, could he? And yet here he was, fuming.

“What is the matter?”

“The matter? THE MATTER?” Legolas halted and let his hand fall to the table once more. The wood vibrated with it, and ink sloshed over the rim of the bottle, speckled the piece of parchment Thranduil had annotated. Next door, a few of the horses neighed and stampeded, made nervous by this outcry. Thranduil raised an eyebrow and was reminded of a time when tantrums like this one had been a regular occurrence, not long after his wife’s departure. The key difference being that Legolas had been a mere fifteen years old.

“Would you calm down and explain exactly what is going on?” Thranduil asked. He took up the necklace and ran his thumb over the dulled edge of the arrowhead. Closed his fist around it and pressed it to his chest.

“Did it ever mean anything to you?” Legolas crossed his arms and looked up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly.

“Legolas, this is unlike you. Stop being childish and tell me what has you so upset…please.”

“I meant to speak to you, about the meeting with the dwarfs. Dain has sent word you see, about the arrival of their delegation. Not knowing that you had met with Brithon, I went directly to the throne room to look for you,” Legolas said. “To find not you there, but Elros. Lounging atop it like it’s his favorite armchair. Which is a grave enough affront, but his games do not end there. He played with the arrowhead like it was a toy. Not enough that you gave him some of grandfather’s rings, not enough that you have him guard your chambers. No.” He paused to take a shaky breath and looked at Thranduil. The pain hit Thranduil like its own arrow, straight to the heart. “I asked him how he had gotten hold of it. Do you want to know what he said?” Thranduil had a feeling he didn’t, but he nodded, nonetheless. “He said that you had discarded it, as good as thrown it out of the window. He just wanted me to know. And then he ordered me to bring him a snack.”

“Oh,” Thranduil said. So, Mairon was fooling around. Not a surprise, it had to be horrible for him. Having to wait out his victory, having to go the slow, diplomatic route. It was the Maia’s natural inclination to sow discord and pain, but Thranduil couldn’t help the little flare of anger he felt. Legolas was wounded, and for the first time since he had returned from Dol Guldur, Thranduil felt an honest instinct to cross the distance between them. To draw Legolas in his arms like he used to, and kiss his forehead, and tell him silly stories. He hadn’t done that since… well, forever. Mairon would be furious with him if he got a notion of these thoughts. Absolutely outraged. But Thranduil couldn’t help it. Nothing, not even torture by or promises to his master could extinguish the love he had for his son.

“Oh?” Legolas said. “That is all you have to say on the matter? By Elbereth, but you are blind, ada. Blind. I understand that you and he shared in the trauma of torture, that he was all the company you had in those years. But he has become insolent. He abuses the trust you put in him to play high and mighty, to do as he pleases. First, he conducts a witch hunt against Bard, trying to force him to leave. Then, he insults his own family and shuns them, is mean to everyone who demands your attention, even on official business. And now this? I cannot watch any longer. Your time in Dol Guldur has maddened him, and he must relearn his place.”

 _And what if I told you that my granting him this freedom is deliberate? What if I told you that he is exactly where he is meant to be?_ Thranduil smiled. _You’d proclaim me as mad, no doubt._

“Bard does not belong here,” he said instead, and Legolas gave a short, humorless laugh. Shook his head.

“Yes, he does. He is every bit part of this kingdom as any of us.”

“Unwise,” Thranduil murmured.

If Bard stayed, that meant he was as doomed as any of them. He would not burn, like the rest of mankind, but be forced to kindle the flame that was to consume this world. Not that Thranduil cared much. He had just about managed to regain a sort of apathy towards Bard, not to flinch when he laid eye upon the man. Legolas’ attachment to him was in the way of what Thranduil and Mairon both agreed on doing. Cast him out. Be rid of him. Thranduil couldn’t bring himself to do it.

“He will be useful when it comes to seizing Dale,” he would tell Mairon in the middle of the night, when their post-orgasmic conversations took them to more serious topics, when Mairon got lost in his schemes and ideas. Bard was a frequent topic of discussion between them, and Mairon loved to criticize Thranduil on his reluctance to enact what he called Mercy for the Mortal. If things went according to Mairon’s preferences, Thranduil would hack the man’s head off and be done with him. That was pettiness though, and strategically ill-advised.

“Fine,” Mairon would reply, and heave a long sigh that was only part sarcastic. “But if you fall for him again, I will have to kill both of you. And then Legolas must be my new pet.” The idea had Thranduil halfway through a panic attack.

“Ada?” Timid now, not forceful, not angry. Thranduil shook himself, and found that he sat on a chair, short for breath. Legolas hovered over him, hands on his shoulders. The world was slow to steady

“Forgive me, I must have blacked out.”

“You are pale,” Legolas said. He pressed his palm against Thranduil’s forehead. Thranduil closed his eyes and inhaled. Grass, and rain, and sunshine, and Legolas. “Do the memories still haunt you?”

“Always.”

“Look, I mean to help you, and I do not think that Elros’ conduct is beneficial to your… recovery.”

“My recovery? Do I look like I need… what? Some sort of therapy?”

“Yes,” Legolas said softly, and his hand was replaced by warm lips. Tears pooled in the corners of Thranduil’s eye. He pressed his eyelids tighter together. “Yes, you do.”

“I did not discard it.”

“What?”

“I did not discard the arrowhead. I left it on my nightstand, must have forgotten to put it on this morning.” Not to mention that he used to never take it off, not even to sleep. But Mairon did not like him to wear it during their time alone together. With his affections for Legolas locked away safely, Thranduil had found that the token had lost its significance. Now, he was sorry to have disregarded it so. He never thought it meant all that much to Legolas. “Mairon must have thought it funny.”

“What did you just say?” Legolas gasped.

Thranduil opened his eyes, realizing his mistake much too late. He grimaced.

“Sorry, it seems I am still caught in the memory. I mean Elros, of course. Elros must have thought it was funny.”

“Who is Mairon?”

“Someone who is of no consequence,” Thranduil said, and thanked all the stars in the night sky that the Maia was not here right now. He would be more than dead.

“If you say so. Still, there is the matter of Elros’ behavior.”

“I will speak to him, it will not happen again. Now, you had meant to talk to me about the dwarfs?”

Legolas hesitated for a moment, then related the news from Erebor. Dain’s delegation, which included some well-known faces, the Lady Dís among them, would arrive in a week’s time, accompanied by Halvard and Sigrid who had become chief healer of Dale. They would stay for a couple of days, to present their favors and to hold council in order to manage the threat they all faced. The orcs might have drawn back into their fortress, the spiders thinned out, but Bard and Legolas believed that this meant they gathered in preparation for a bigger attack. They had given up on information regarding this from Thranduil as he was prone to relapses. Something that shamed him, but that he couldn’t help.

“I will arrange for quarters and see them properly welcomed,” Legolas concluded. His features were stony now, all business. “I would ask you permission to prewrite the agenda and prepare a proposal which would best suit all three realms’ ideas of preparing for battle.”

Thranduil scowled. Legolas was still used to acting the king, but he too seemed to misunderstand his position. Commander of their forces or not, Legolas had no right to decide on a strategy in a matter as grave as this. But he could not outrightly refuse him. Discord, yes. Discord that could turn to revolt, and then Mairon and him would be hard pressed for an advantage.

“We can work on our resolution together,” he said, so as not to anger Legolas. He would have to consult Mairon, ask him how best to proceed in a manner that outwardly followed the common cause of dwarf, elf and man, but in reality, furthered their progress. It proved too good an opportunity.

“Very well,” Legolas said. He put his fist to his heart, made for the door.

“Legolas?” Thranduil called after him, and Legolas halted, his head bowed. Did not glance back at his father. “I do love you.” The words were out before he could comprehend their meaning. He swallowed the sob that meant to follow. Legolas smiled.

“Please don’t forget it,” he said. He left, left Thranduil empty and with a thousand conflicting thoughts at the same time. It was true, somehow. But this love, it was raw and painful, and he did not want it back, not when it so clearly opposed everything he and Mairon worked towards.


	23. Civil Isolation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, the next chapter. Look out for a couple more today and tomorrow. Hope you enjoy it, we're quickly gearing up to the climax hehe. Bonus points if you spot the Faramir reference :)
> 
> Title based on the song 'Civil Isolation' by While She Sleeps. It's just. My heart. I love this song, the whole album tbh
> 
> Warning for sexual content

_Sick of our society  
Sick of trying to fit inside a life I cannot lead  
Sick of always following  
Sick of trying to be another cog in their machine  
Sick of running on empty, pushing the blame  
Waiting for tomorrow to save us from today_

Another week passed, much like it had in Dol Guldur, fast and incomprehensible. Though Thranduil had day and night, sleep and waking, to ground him in reality, he had never felt further from it. His time with Mairon alone as the only bright spots in an otherwise confusing blur of faces, colors and requests.

_Esgaroth this, Erebor that._

_The horses, mylord, we still haven’t come to a decision concerning the horses._

_What of collaboration with the other realms? Should we not warn Lothlorien, ask Elrond for his assistance?_

_Mylord, there is rumor of something stirring in the east._

_Mylord, what to cook for our guests?_

_Mylord, you look pale._

_Mylord…_

_Thranduil?_

“Thranduil, a word?”

Thranduil shook himself out of his reverie. Blinked several times before the scene came into focus. He was seated in the council room, the lingering scent of cotton and metal and all kinds of perfumes there to suggest that a meeting had gone by without him taking notice of it. He sat in his chair, a goblet idle in his hand – of course, he had not managed to leave it at one drink, it was too wondrous for his anxiety – which now bore but one of Oropher’s rings, the most powerful one by which Thranduil could see into every nook and cranny of the forest as long as the darkness hadn’t yet spread there.

With him in the room was Bard, Bard with his deer eyes and his neatly trimmed beard. He wore a simple tunic of green and was so at ease that he looked like he belonged here. Add some pointy ears… but no.

“Bard,” Thranduil said, a little dumbfounded at how he’d gotten here. He was proud to say that he could work with Bard now, had broken through the chain of conditioning. Bard was nothing to him, not anymore, and his feeble aspirations would drown in the flames of Mairon’s subjugation. “What can I do for you?”

“Two things, actually. For one, I received a letter from Sigrid this morning. She arrives with the Dale delegation, you see. I wanted to ask whether you would allow me to accompany her on the way back. Visit my family.”

“Naturally. What else?”

Bard played with the empty candelabra that sat on a sideboard. He hesitated for a long moment, his breath shaky, and Thranduil was thrown back in time, to another conversation in this room. He had the high ground this time though. If Bard meant to try his hands at another confession-

“Would you consider dining with me tonight? Just the two of us. There are a few things I’d like to talk to you about without Legolas or that guard of yours lingering about.”

“…I…can’t,” Thranduil said, and it was true. He could stand Bard in his day to day dealings, but to have the man go ahead and try to pry him open. Well, that would be no good.

“I understand,” came the reply. “See you at dinner then.”

When Bard was gone, it was back to the hustle, the chirps of his subjects and the endless string of question marks. Thranduil felt a ghost in his palace as he hovered above its buzz on his throne or floated from room to room on various missions whose purpose he had forgotten once they were done with. He managed to satisfy Brithon with a breeding scheme and had devised a menu for his cook. He loosened arrow after arrow in an attempt to wake himself up, and next thing he knew he stood before the mirror, Galion at his back with a brush and a slab of ointment to ease Thranduil’s tense shoulders. On and on in a loop of indiscernible shape. Nightfall saw him either too exhausted to keep his eyes open for long or thoroughly used, ridden raw and aching, which made it in turn harder to face the next day.

During and after, Mairon drilled his plans into Thranduil’s head.

“We have the trust of Dale. If they can place an ambassador here, they should not object to us placing soldiers in their city. To protect them, of course. Make sure that Bard is thoroughly convinced.”

“We can gain the trust of the dwarfs. Give them something pretty or make them drunk, I don’t care. They are simple creatures. Get soldiers stationed inside of that mountain, too. If they want to send a few of their own here, no problem, we will do away with them.”

“Use the bowman to convince the dwarfs.”

“Make sure your son has total understanding of this plan and seconds it.”

“If we are to succeed, we need to have soldiers with the dwarfs.”

“There is no taking Erebor from the outside.”

“Get-“ and he would stress each word with thrusts of his hips as he buried his cock inside of Thranduil “-your. People. Inside. That. Mountain. What will you do?”

“I will get my people inside that mountain,” Thranduil would cry and come hard as Mairon’s fingers wrapped around him.

“What happens once we have people in Dale and Erebor?” Thranduil asked once, when the afterglow of their intimacies had faded, and the fears crept in.

“War,” Mairon said and briefly, his shadow flickered across the wall and Thranduil thought he could smell blood.

Before long, Thranduil woke up alone in a cold bed, an icy draft giving him goosebumps, alone and about to face his guests and fellow diplomats. He had convinced Legolas of Mairon’s tactic enough and now it was on him to negotiate it. Simple. Or so it should be.

Galion came in, punctual as always, with a flimsy smile and a cup of peach tea which Thranduil sipped on as his face was washed, his hair brushed, and he clad in his finest silks that shimmered taupe and golden. Again, the twigs of his crown settled against his ears and head. Again, Galion straightened Thranduil’s collar. Again, he wished him a good day and promised to be there if he was needed.

“Thank you,” Thranduil said in the thousandth iteration of this routine. Galion pressed his fist against his chest and made to busy himself with other duties.

The knock on the door came not moments after Galion had left, and Mairon stepped in. Thranduil’s mood brightened and he opened his mouth to say something but stopped himself when he noticed his son behind the Maia, equally formal and with a loose expression on his features.

“Mylord,” Mairon said, and nodded. The message in his eyes was clear: remember what we talked about and don’t mess things up. “I wish you good fortune. Let us hope that the dwarfs are well-behaved today.”

“We will manage them,” Legolas said brightly. He offered Thranduil an arm which he took with gratitude though he wished he could take Mairon with him. An anchor.

Thranduil and Legolas joined the speckling of elves that waited in the entrance hall, their most important advisors. Brithon was among them, Bard was not. He had ridden out to meet Sigrid and the others on the way and to oversee their safe arrival.

It wasn’t long before the great double doors swung open. The dwarfs marched in, led by the Lady Dís, sister to the late Thorin Oakenshield. Her long hair and beard were braided intricately into a series of flowers, a showing of good will no doubt.

“If it isn’t our favorite pointy-eared princess,” Dís drawled upon seeing him and held out her hand which Thranduil took with a gracious smile. “By Mahal’s beard, what happened to your face?” There was good humor in her eyes. This was easy, this was known. To rule a kingdom – impossible. To trade insults with dwarfs – as though he had been born to it. Thranduil fluttered his lashes.

“Lady Dís,” he said. “I hadn’t noticed you under all that hair.”

“Hah. Still a bastard, I see. They didn’t torture that out of you?” She smacked his chest with her fist and bellowed a laugh before cutting off. Around them all the company had fallen quiet, every pair of eyes trailed on Thranduil. The atmosphere was laden with held breaths and Legolas looked half ready to chop the dwarf’s head off. Thranduil waited for the flash of panic, but none came. He grinned.

“My parents were respectable people and married well before my conception, thank you,” Thranduil said. He could feel Bard study him from where he stood by his daughter’s side.

Dís blinked up at him. The other dwarfs had their mouths open except for Gloin’s son who had gone scarlet and gave a short bark, then burst out into thundering laughter.

“Gimli,” Gloin hissed and punched his son in the side. Legolas rolled his eyes.

Dís returned Thranduil’s grin. “Still a bastard,” she repeated, then went on to greet Legolas and the rest of Thranduil’s party. After Thranduil had shaken hands with the other dwarfs, all except for Gimli who stuttered and hid behind his father’s back, he wiped them theatrically on his robes. Legolas meanwhile tried his best not to come into any contact with them. His antipathy for dwarfs was much quicker to manifest than Thranduil’s (most of the time anyway) and tended to shift into outright hatred, which made Thranduil marvel at how his son had managed without him. The answer most likely, walked towards Thranduil now, his eldest daughter on his arm. Thranduil felt a mixture of affection and guilt flood his chest at the sight of her.

Sigrid had taken to womanhood and responsibility beautifully. Her thick hazel hair was woven in coils around her head and her eyes shone with wisdom unspoken. She had traded her soft features for sharp cheekbones and wore a plain blue dress that had her eyes stand out like radiant sapphires. She looked lovely and Thranduil felt proud of her for no reason at all other than that she stood before him now, as powerful as her father and separate from him. Not once, in all the three years in Dol Guldur had Thranduil given her or Tilda, or even Bain a thought. By Eru, little Tilda with her easy smiles and bursting curiosity. Thranduil felt sick over it.

“Sigrid, my dear,” he said and the smile he wore wavered. “You look as lovely as Elbereth herself.” Sigrid laughed like a hundred bells of freedom and fell into his arms.

“You flatter me, Thranduil.” She placed a kiss on his good cheek. “You look like you have been through hell and back.”

“So, I have.” They embraced for a long moment before she stepped back and curtsied.

“It relieves me to find you in good health,” Sigrid said in an ignorant echo of her father’s first words to him. Bard nodded. “I know you think our medicine inferior, but I will be damned if I cannot do something about that handprint. It looks nasty.” A wave of ice enclosed Thranduil’s heart. Of course, she would want to fix him. When he looked her over again, the magic had faded. Just another meddling person who had no idea of what they spoke.

“Another time, perhaps.” Thranduil waved them on. Behind them, Halvard waited, stroking his moustache.

“Halvard,” Thranduil said dryly, nodded, then turned away before the man could force him into further politeness. He wandered among the crowds of elves, humans and dwarfs until he found Legolas.

“Everyone is here, ada.”

“My friends,” Thranduil said loudly, and the chatter died down. “If you would follow me.” He led them to one of his banquet halls, much more spacious than the council room. He felt steady, focused enough to do as Mairon wanted of him. A chance for Thranduil, King of the Greenwood, to prove his worth. Time to shine.


	24. Begging For Mercy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was one of the hardest to write and is a little f**ked up, but it was also conceptualized very early on in the process and so I'm excited that we got here. Please check the warnings below if any of these things trigger or bother you before you read. It's a dark chapter, but things will get better I promise. For those of you still willing to read, I hope you enjoy :)
> 
> Song is by Bullet For My Valentine
> 
> tws: sexual content, blowjobs, humiliation, suffocation, choking, violence
> 
> PS: I wrote this chapter in Bard's POV too, might post it as an extra later.

_Can you feel your pain  
The smell of fear's around you.  
Do you want to scream  
Let it out cause no one can hear you_

When Thranduil entered his chambers after the meeting, Mairon did not stand at attention by his door, but lounged on his bed, topless, and his hair open against smooth skin. Thranduil chuckled, then went over to his table to pour himself a goblet of wine. It had been a successful day; he deserved some respite.

“I am terribly bored,” Mairon drawled, and walked over on bare feet. He took the filled goblet out of Thranduil’s hands and emptied it in one long draft. Then he cast it aside. Thranduil blinked. “Please entertain me?”

Thranduil’s heart fluttered as Mairon pressed a hand to his chest, and his heat seeped through the thick fabric of Thranduil’s ceremonial robes. He smiled.

“I am sure we can arrange something,” he said. Mairon did not smile, his brown eyes were fixed on Thranduil’s, flickering ever so often.

“How did the negotiations go?”

“We have come to the agreement to leave the fortification of Erebor to its inhabitants, meanwhile Bard and I will work to have a defense tactic in place to protect Dale,” Thranduil said. He waited for the low hum of pleasure, the praise. His whole body was high-strung, ready for Mairon’s reaction. Instead of looking pleased though, Mairon’s face twisted into a snarl and the glamor over his eyes fell away to reveal fierce fire that burned a hole through Thranduil’s skull. A sharp pain echoed through his head and the scar tissue on his cheek throbbed.

“That is not what we agreed on,” Mairon said through gritted teeth. His hand on Thranduil’s chest curled and the heat went from pleasant to scalding. The smell of burning cloth curled around Thranduil’s nostrils and he looked down to find his robes charred and smoking where Mairon touched them. Thranduil bowed his head.

“It made sense.”

“It made sense?” Mairon echoed, incredulous. “Thranduil, love, I thought I had made myself clear. You were to make sure you got your soldiers to Erebor.”

“Forgive me. We are so few and I thought-“ Mairon’s hand moved up to Thranduil’s throat, and squeezed, cutting off his words, his air, his resistance. With more force than Thranduil could stand against, Mairon forced him down onto his knees, his grip tight. Thranduil felt his cheek burn with shame at the fury that wove about Mairon like an invisible aura.

“No,” Mairon said, and his other hand came up to Thranduil’s hair, grabbed a fistful of it. “You do not think. You do as I tell you. Yes?” Thranduil nodded, blinking against his tears. “Say it.” The hand around his throat loosened minutely.

“I do as you tell me,” he choked out. He was caught on the spot, trapped in the bulge of his robes and by Mairon’s hands. His head spun, but he could not take his eyes off Mairon’s. The flame within him consumed Thranduil, and in that moment he would have given anything to make it burn for him, not against him. “Please, what can I do to repent?”

“I am furious with you.”

“I know.”

“You have disappointed me.”

“I did not mean to.”

“I don’t care,” Mairon said, and the hand at Thranduil’s throat disappeared and moved to the lacings of his breeches which were taut over his erection. Thranduil eyed it, hungry, eager. Something in his chest tugged at his ripped heart strings, maybe this time he would be absolved. The fingers in his hair tightened and pulled him towards Mairon’s exposed cock.

“Open your mouth, my little eglath. Put it to good use for once,” he growled and Thranduil’s complied, took, drank, sucked Mairon in until his mouth was full, and still Mairon pulled him closer.

“Ah, that’s it.” He gave a tug at Thranduil’s hair and sharp pain tingled all over his scalp. He gagged around Mairon’s cock, tried to get as much air in through his nose as he would, but Mairon had him by the throat again and pushed forward, deeper. Thranduil’s body convulsed and shook as Marion drew back and thrust again, and again. He applied his tongue were possible, gave muffled cries in response to this abuse. Uncomfortable, painful, but oh so exquisite. The exact punishment he deserved.

“You are such a failure,” Mairon growled and used the hand that had been in Thranduil’s hair to slap him across the face. Thranduil’s breath rattled through what little space there was. Tears leaked from his eyes and saliva from his lips as Mairon pounded into his mouth again, and again, until it was raw and Thranduil drank it all up, the pain and the pleasure and all that lay in between. His own cock was achingly hard and leaked against the cloth that trapped it. When his breath allowed for it, he moaned. Stared up at Mairon who had his eyes closed, an alluring grin on his lips.

“Suffer,” he hissed, and Thranduil sucked hard on the next thrust, prompting Mairon to release a string of words in that dark, jagged language that shuddered through Thranduil’s body. A heat coiled in his stomach, tight and buzzing. Pressed against his skin from the inside. His cock felt close to bursting. Mairon went fast then, ravished Thranduil’s mouth raw and hit the back of his throat again, and again, until Thranduil felt he could take no more. His hands were cramped up and his facial muscles aflame from the constant strain. He retched and writhed, and when he felt his jaw might go into lockdown, Mairon’s hips gave a hard, long jerk and he pulled away from Thranduil as he came, spurting hot seed all over his face, neck and chest. Thranduil slumped when Mairon let go of him, folded in on himself, chin to his chest and heaving breaths. His face was wet with all kinds of fluids, his nose runny, his lips sore and the corners bloody from the abuse. The front of his breeches was stained with his own release.

“Well,” Mairon said, slightly flushed. “I think that ought to have gotten the point across.” He patted Thranduil’s head. “Gave our spectator quite the show, did we not. Bard?”

Thranduil felt as though he had dived into ice water. His head whipped around to the door which stood slightly ajar, framing Bard who looked utterly bewildered. His jaw was slack, his mouth open, and his eyes bulged out of his skull. His right lid twitched as he watched Mairon pull his breeches back up. The Maia bent down to lick some of his seed off Thranduil’s good cheek, then captured his lips in an open-mouthed, dirty kiss. Thranduil moaned feebly, unable to move a muscle, then watched Mairon slide past Bard with a wink.

“You can have what’s left of him,” he purred and was out of sight a moment later. Bard shook his head. Huffed. Pointed in the direction Mairon had disappeared to. Opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again. Huffed once more.

Thranduil gave a muffled sob and looked away. He couldn’t bear to look at Bard, Bard who was so clearly upset by this, Bard who would never understand.

“Leave,” he whispered and drew his robe tighter around himself. He felt grimy and cold and wanted nothing more than a warm bath, but that too was part of his punishment. To bear Bard’s outbreak of disgust. “Please.”

“By Eru, how could I?” Bard seemed to find his voice. Color stained his cheeks. He stepped into the room and closed the door behind himself. Thranduil cringed.

“Please. Go away. For your own sake, if not for mine.”

Thranduil closed his eyes and let the spiral commence. Bard was no fool. He would come up with the logical explanation, would figure out that Thranduil was naught more than a puppet to Mairon’s scheme. The only respite in that was that he believed it to be Elros and as such their scheme was saved. But he would tell Legolas and how could Thranduil ever look his son in the eye again? Knowing he had enjoyed every spike of pain. Knowing he would do it again and without hesitation. Someone would overhear, and before long the whole palace would know, down to the last stable boy. He couldn’t discern why Mairon had let Bard watch. To punish Thranduil, yes. To make mockery of the affections of the bowman and the love Thranduil used to harbor for him. But beyond that? It had been petty and foolish. Unlike Mairon.

“I must have really angered him,” Thranduil muttered and laughed.

“Thranduil,” Bard said, a world of hurt in his voice. Something soft touched Thranduil’s cheeks, and he realized belatedly that Bard was cleaning him. If he had bone left, he would have slapped him away, resisted this further humiliation. But he had nothing. No resistance, nothing. All his emotions had spilled from his body with his orgasm and he was grateful for it. Else he might have felt something for Bard, be it gratitude or fury. “Please look at me.”

Thranduil opened his eyes and regretted it instantly. Bard knelt before him, a cotton cloth in his hand.

 _I feel sorry for you_ , written all over his lined features.

“How can he do this to you?” Bard asked and put his free hand on Thranduil’s shoulder. “How can you let him do this to you?”

“I want it.”

“No,” Bard said. Shook his head. “No, I don’t believe it. What does he have on you?”

“Nothing.”

“Thranduil, please. We can help you, Legolas and I-“

“You will not relate this to Legolas,” Thranduil hissed. “Any of it.” Bard flinched, nodded slowly though Thranduil did not believe it. Come morning, Mairon would be under lock and he would be dethroned, discarded, discredited.

“I will keep it to myself, but only if you tell me why you let him abuse you like this? It cannot truly be your wish?”

“It is.”

“No, no. This is unlike you-“

“What do you know of me? It has been three years, Bard, and even before, you only knew a version of me. You loved me you say?”

“Love you still.” A confession that had Thranduil see stars. He was exhausted and overwhelmed and this only added to his urge to curl up and pass out for the next month. Love. Useless.

“No, you do not. You love a fantasy, Bard. But whatever you saw in me, see in me, it was never there. I am what is before you: perverted, weak, cold. There is only darkness in my heart and to love me is to waste your life.”

“You don’t mean that,” Bard rasped and his eyes were watery, but he held back his tears. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed them down. He discarded the cloth, and let go of Thranduil, ran his calloused fingers through his own hair which stood up in all directions. A hallo of dark brown and grey. Despicable. Weak. Pathetic.

“I mean every word.” Thranduil glowered at Bard, as best he could. The bowman kept shaking his head.

“I will find you, Thranduil. Somewhere in there.” And he got up, fists clenched at his side. “I will save you.”

“Don’t bother,” Thranduil replied. “Just… go.”

So, Bard did. But not without another pained glance at Thranduil. Pitiful. Weak. Human.


	25. Six Feet Under

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the next one. Thank you reveryone who's been keeping up with this story, it means the world <3
> 
> 'Six Feet Under' is a song by Crystal Lake. 
> 
> Tws: symptoms of alcoholism and EDs

_You think you can hunt me down?  
Well you're dealing with the devil  
So do what you want  
Say what you will_

When Thranduil left his quarters the next day – barely recovered from Mairon’s punishment or Bard’s soft-spoken words that veiled his true appalment – there was a commotion by the high-arched hallway that lead to the throne room.

He managed to shake Galion off in the morning by feigning an unusual outburst of energy, eager to get about the day without delay. Galion raised two eyebrows at him and shifted from one foot to the other for an entire minute, worried his lower lip before Thranduil pasted on a smile so dazzling that the elf had given in.

When he made to get ready for the day though, Thranduil’s fingers felt like useless twigs that would break upon the slightest impact. They shook in the winds of his discomfort, and barely managed the laces of his boots. When he wanted to put on a ring, it clattered to the ground. His meager flesh too thin to hold them on bony fingers. Thranduil downed the rest of the decanter of wine – a sorry two goblets – and that got him through dressing, combing his hair. Thranduil stared in the mirror for a long time, had let his fingers graze over the scar tissue which had turned a corpse-like gray-brown, over the black handprint that was still stark against his bleached skin, the thumb of it coming up to cradle the underside of Thranduil’s chin.

First, there was nothing.

_You look… ugly._

Then, there was a tremor, like the first emissaries of an earthquake which threatened to serrate and swallow all the land.

_More than ugly. Twisted, evil._

Then, Thranduil pinched his good cheek to bring some life back to it.

_More a monster than Mairon, really. Had he a face…_

Then, he bent down to pick up the ring and let it slide over his thumb instead.

_I wish you had died._

Then, a gaping chasm opened within his intestines and a pull unlike anything he had felt before.

_I wish you would die._

Then, Oropher’s voice, returned from the bottom of that pit. From where Thranduil had buried it.

 _Ion nîn._ Like the gentle lap of shell-ridden waves on sand like snow. Like the tender buzz of a bumblebee. Like-

Then, a cramp that had him double over.

_Thranduil, my heart, you have strayed too far from home._

Then, Thranduil slapped himself across the cheek and he was alone once more. Alone with a reflection like something straight from the dungeons of Utumno. He had half a mind to conjure his glamour once more, to do something that would make him look less ghoulish.

But no. He would not, could not dare to defy Mairon like this, not when the list of his failures grew every day.

 _You do not want it_ , he told himself and tore his gaze away. For once grateful that he found nothing of his father in the mirror. _You want this._

Mairon did not stand at attention by his door which didn’t surprise Thranduil. He was probably off somewhere, to pester other soldiers or even out to communicate with his commanders at Dol Guldur. There was, after all, still another army to run.

Thranduil kept his head held high as he traversed the sunlit chambers and narrow corridors of his home, let its magic seep into him through every pore. Earthy and mossy and filled with such power that he felt momentarily rejuvenated. That was, until he ran into the crowd. Countless elves were gathered, a sea of auburn and hazel heads and green-gray cloth, the odd Sinda too. There was an excited buzz in the air, murmurs and exclaims. Laughter and tears. All of it laced through with a note of worry.

Thranduil cleared his throat and several people whirled around to stare at him. The crowd parted as he walked on.

“What is this?” Thranduil asked but needed no reply as he reached the epicenter of the commotion. Two figures knelt on the ground, clutching each other tight. One of them was Legolas whose hair was open and wild around his shoulder and whose left hand covered the other figure’s face; their foreheads pressed tight together. The other was thin, but steady on her knees. Hair like an autumn rhapsody, even in the face of evil. She was bloodied and dirty, but shone like the last flower of the year, bursting through a carpet of dead leaves. Tauriel had somehow, magically, made it out and back.

…

“Legolas?” Thranduil asked. Her name would not pass his lips. Not when both explanations for her appearance were so heartbreaking. She was alive, she had made it back, he had abandoned her when he left Dol Guldur, Tauriel his bright and beautiful friend. But Mairon had said, had promised, had laughed about, had, had, had. Had related her death as though it had been part of his breakfast. Which left the other possibility. This wasn’t Tauriel, but Mairon who had kept her as his last chess piece, tucked away.

Legolas and Tauriel broke apart and gazed up at him. She smiled. Her lip was split, and her left cheek bruised, but she smiled and, Valar, this wasn’t Mairon. Couldn’t be. The next words got stuck in Thranduil’s throat and hot tears rolled down his cheek ere he could comprehend her.

“Ada,” Legolas said, breathless. “Ada, she made it.”

“I-“ but before he could say it, Tauriel had leapt up and flung herself into his arms. Thranduil caught her with a newfound strength, the ring on his thumb giving off pulses of energy. His throat unblocked as Tauriel’s arms wrapped around his neck. Not the looming winter just yet. Autumn still.

They parted with shy smiles and unspoken words between them. Thranduil was not sure he would ever find the part of him that wanted to say them out loud, but Tauriel knew. Legolas looked like he wanted to jump on them and squeeze them both to death, but before he could act on that instinct, something else happened.

There was a ripple of motion in the surrounding elves and Thranduil watched them part once more to reveal another player in this vast, tiring game. His appearance confirmed Thranduil’s suspicions.

“My, my,” Mairon said. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“You,” Tauriel hissed and built herself up before Thranduil like a shield, both arms spread wide. “Get away from here.” An audible murmur travelled through the crowd. Some exchanged weary glances, scowled at Elros’ smug grin. Thranduil wondered about that grin because one thing was clear from the way Mairon’s lips peeled back from his teeth, too tight: he hadn’t meant for Tauriel to survive, let alone find her way back here. His whole form flickered around the edges, darkness that oozed out of him. A trick of the light perhaps, or an indicator of anger.

“I haven’t done anything,” Mairon said, his arms raised in mock-surrender.

 _Stop being so cocky_ , Thranduil thought. _Stop it with the displays. You’re getting ahead of yourself._

Nausea like an avalanche drowned him. He had no right to these thoughts. If anything, he ought to aid Mairon. Resolve this situation as quickly as possible. There were too many unknowns. The crowd, the hatred in Legolas’ eyes as he took up position next to Tauriel, one hand on his blade, Tauriel’s state of mind, his own fluctuating resilience.

“Tauriel,” Thranduil said. Her name felt foreign on his tongue. Sacrilegious. She embodied all the left turns he had taken when the obvious path was to the right. He had given up on her with pleasure and though there was guilt, there was no urge to set it right. Earnest apologies were reserved for Mairon alone. “Ease up.” Tauriel didn’t.

“You,” she spat. “Vile, disgusting, godless piece of shit. You dare to come here in this guise? You dare to walk these halls as one of our own? You are nothing, you are-“

“Tauriel.” Legolas, this time, aghast and disturbed. “What is going on?”

“I’d like to ask the same question,” Mairon said. He crossed his arms and jutted his hips to the left. “Last I checked, we were friends.” The benefits of sharing Thranduil’s head, no doubt. Oh, how Thranduil longed for those days in the darkness. No corporeal worries, no living beyond the borders of his head. Being able to touch Mairon was one thing. This though? Too many barriers and chances for miscommunication.

“Let us all calm down, please,” Thranduil said. He kept his voice hushed and his fingers folded. Straightened his spine out, so he could hover over the scene rather than watch it from behind Tauriel’s back. “Tauriel, I have an idea of what you’re going through right now, so I understand that you might be upset, but Elros is not to blame.”

“This is not Elros.” Tauriel took a jerky step forward and spat at the ground before Mairon’s feet. Blood stood high on her cheeks and her whole body was as taut as a drawn bowstring. 

“I think I’d know-“

“I was there when Elros died,” she said, and looked at him from over her shoulder. “I was there when the wargs tore out his throat and let him bleed to death.”

“An illusion perhaps?” Legolas asked. Mairon nodded, but there was a nervous flicker in his eyes now.

 _If this all falls to pieces_ , Thranduil thought. _We’ll make a run for it_. He desperately hoped Mairon could read his mind.

“No illusion. I watched the light in his eyes go out as surely as I stand here now. Elros is gone. Days, I held his dead body close to my chest, the only comfort left in a world that had shriveled to a single cell. I bawled my eyes out over him. And then _he_ came.” Tauriel pointed at Mairon whose eyebrows rose so high they wanted to merge with his hairline. Thranduil wanted to reach out to her, stop her, but he was paralyzed. Legolas’ skepticism washed away, a little more with each word she said.

“I felt him more than saw him. He is ancient and powerful, but not as he once was.”

“Who?” someone from the crowd called.

“Sauron.” Gasps by the hundreds filled the room, all taking their air directly from Thranduil’s lungs. “The Necromancer was but another mysterious name for the same evil we have faced since the olden days. Sauron has returned, has poisoned our forest and now come to us in the guise of Elros. He wears his body, but do not let yourselves be fooled. It is Sauron and I will swear to that on my life.”

Mairon burst out laughing, but he was the only one. Around him the crowd of onlookers, which seemed to have thickened since Mairon’s appearance, exchanged frightened glances. It could not be true, could it? Thranduil gritted his teeth. What could he do to stop this? Was he not a king in this room and why then did he feel so bereft of power? Mairon would not look at him as his giggles subsided.

“You must be joking,” he said.

“Die,” Tauriel screeched and ripped a dagger from Legolas’ belt. Thranduil’s eyes widened as he realized her intentions, but he was too sluggish in his reaction. Ere he could so much as conjure a sound, Tauriel had pulled her arm back, had taken aim and had released the dagger with a pained howl. Thranduil watched it sear through the air as though in slow motion, felt every beat of his heart in his ears as though it lasted a lifetime. Mairon’s eyes met his across the room and there was no fear in them. In the blink of an eye later, the dagger buried itself to the hilt in Mairon’s chest. Time stopped.


	26. Parasite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the next. One of my favorite chapters. Hope you enjoy :)
> 
> Title is based on 'Parasite' by Betraying The Martyrs.
> 
> Tws: suicidal thoughts

_It's like we're trapped inside an empty room_   
_No light of day, a single ray, could break this feeling of doom_   
_I look across, who do I see, it's you and only you_

Time stopped, then resumed with a crash. Screams filled the air, high-pitched and manifold and Thranduil jerked this way and that to find their source. Mairon was frozen on the spot, his gaze swiveled between the handle of the dagger and Tauriel who heaved, angry tears on her cheeks. Legolas too seemed frozen though his muscles were tense, and he looked at Thranduil with a melancholy sort of understanding.

 _Why?_ Thranduil wanted to ask. _Why do you look at me like that? What is happening?_ But the words didn’t take form and it was then that he understood the screams were his own. He clapped a hand over his mouth. No, he didn’t. He tried to. His arm was paralyzed.

_Help me._

Mairon cocked his head.

“Thranduil,” he said, and then something else, but it was Black Speech and as such incomprehensible. Thranduil clung to the guttural syllables, put all his focus on them as Mairon’s gaze held his and they brought him back. Thranduil closed his mouth, the noise dead in his throat. He moved his hand over it, stricken.

“Oh Elbereth,” Legolas gasped softly. He too became unstuck, but not by Mairon’s words. He put a hand on Thranduil’s shoulder, then turned towards a couple of elves at the front of the crowd who wore long blades and a soldier’s uniform. “Seize him.” And he pointed at Mairon who fell into a defensive stance. They lunged at him, but too slowly. He caught the first one square in the face with his fist, then dodged out of the reach of the second attacker, spun, and landed a kick in his gut. As the first one came on to him again, Mairon made to jump back, but another guard had grabbed him from behind. Within seconds, he was restrained, sneering and spitting, but unable to free himself.

 _Work your magic_ , Thranduil pleaded. _Break free, get us out of here._ Nothing happened, at least not with Mairon. Tauriel, on the other hand, had walked up to the Maia and grabbed his chin. The crowd shuffled nervously, the buzz of their constant whispered commentary like a nasty fly that pestered Thranduil. He wanted to swat at them, smash them, but there were more pressing matters at hand.

“Scum,” Tauriel hissed and slapped him across the face, then stalked away again. She went in circles around their little stage, fuming with anger. Her face contorted in a constant snarl.

_She is out of her mind._

_No, this is a natural reaction_ , Oropher said, making an untimely appearance. His words were dry and factual, and it made Thranduil want to rip him out of his head. _You are the one out of your mind. Even now you consider striking down your son to regain control of the situation._

_I would never._

_Ah. Let me recall your words: you never have been a good father?_

_Not like you have been._

_Legolas isn’t you, Thranduil. Understand that._

“Let him go,” Thranduil commanded, shaking himself to get rid of his father’s ill-placed advice. His knees shook and he needed something to hold on to. Something that was real and solid and that didn’t have half a mind to put him down like Legolas did. Thranduil understood the look in his eyes now. He thought him brainwashed. A slave to Sauron the Deceiver, but Legolas was oh so wrong. Not a slave but a servant. Not brainwashed, but free of will. Privileged even. Thranduil took a deep breath and willed his legs to steady. The guard that held Mairon furrowed his brow, eyes wandering between Legolas and Thranduil. Who to follow?

“I am your king,” Thranduil said, his voice dark and veiled with threat. “You swore fealty to me.”

“Mylord,” the guard said. “With all due respect, this… creature should be dead.”

“Exactly,” Tauriel said.

“I told you to let him go.” The grip Legolas had on his shoulder tightened, fingertips dug into malnourished, oversensitive skin. 

The guard shied away from Thranduil’s gaze, but his hold on Mairon didn’t weaken.

“Pitiful, all of you. Do you not recognize a command by your king?” Mairon sneered, but no reaction. The rock in Thranduil’s stomach got heavier by the second.

_Why am I so weak? What must I do?_

“Shut up filth,” Tauriel said, and bore down on Mairon once more. She had a whole head of height on him. “Shut your evil little mouth or I’ll tear your throat out.”

“Nothing to him,” Thranduil muttered, and Legolas’ head whipped around, eyes piercing his skull. “For the last time, let him go.”

The guard stared at Legolas, but Legolas was focused on Thranduil. Thranduil on Mairon. The whole world on the four of them. To come apart before such a crowd, oh the humiliation. Worse than any treatment Mairon could have administered. Thranduil had lost in every way and his people looked to his son to lead them. Pathetic.

“Ada,” Legolas said. “You are unwell. Do you want me to take you to your room? You could-“

“I don’t need sleep, Legolas. I need my subjects to obey me,” Thranduil hissed.

“Mylord, the evidence is there. This is not natural. From what Commander Tauriel said we cannot let him go. Or do we conspire with our sworn enemy now?”

“Please,” Legolas said, stretching his hand toward the guard and Mairon. “My father is clearly confused. He has been subject to years of abuse; it’s no wonder his judgment is clouded.” Thranduil growled. He was no senile old man, he wasn’t confused, he was fine. Completely fine. And if their philosophies happened to diverge, well. They were the ones out of their minds. These arrogant, stupid, weak little elflings and their pathetic codes of conduct. He hated them, all of them, he-

Mairon exposed his teeth in a wide grin.

“Do not worry, little eglath,” he said and caught Thranduil’s eyes. “They will come around.” And he winked which prompted Tauriel to punch him in the face.

“Tauriel,” Legolas and Thranduil said at the same time.

“Apologies, mylords. He had it coming.”

“Isn’t she a feisty one? I should have spent more time with you, might have been fun.”

“Mylord,” the guard said again, pressing the words through clenched teeth. His knuckles were white where they strained against Mairon’s resistance, pearls of sweat on his forehead. A distant scent of smoke filled the air.

“Take him to the dungeons,” Legolas said, sadness lacing his voice.

“No. No,” Thranduil protested.

The guard made to drag Mairon away, but the Maia kicked at him and the others, spit more words in his jagged tongue that had the hairs on Thranduil’s arms stand up.

“Stop this right now.” He yearned for Mairon, his heart pumped and pumped adrenaline through his system.

“I ORDER YOU TO STOP.” Another guard made a grab for Mairon’s legs and the boot connected with his jaw, sent him sprawling.

“Stop,” Thranduil sobbed. “Please.” More elves joined in the attempt to restrain Mairon. It took five of them to hold him down.

“Let him go…” They carried him away. Thranduil couldn’t stand for it, he wiped at the angry tears and made to sprint after them.

Strong arms came up under his armpits and hauled him backwards. Thranduil writhed and kicked out, but he was too weak, useless, a waste of time and space. Mairon’s string of curses faded in the distance, and Thranduil struggled to tear free.

“Let me go,” he said, his voice leaching hatred. “I will rip out your throat, whoever you are.”

“Ada, please, listen to me,” Legolas cried as he restrained Thranduil, held him firm against his chest. Tauriel grabbed Thranduil’s wrists.

“I order you to let me go, Legolas. Won’t any of you help me?” Thranduil hissed at the surrounding elves, but no one made to step in. On the contrary, the crowd dispersed. Thranduil tried to aim another kick, but Tauriel and Legolas had him trapped between them. He was betrayed, dethroned, forsaken again, forsaken by his own people. Thranduil howled. Legolas pulled him closer, his sobs vibrating through both their torsos.

“Ada,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

Tauriel bared her teeth as Thranduil tried to tear his arms free, but she held on. Under much struggle, they managed to pull Thranduil down to the ground where, finally, his whole body deflated, and he broke down. Nothing left to give, but his tears for Mairon, their plans, himself. He had hit the bull’s eye of messed up and even if Mairon got out, he would leave Thranduil behind. What use was a mangled and broken elf who couldn’t even control his own kingdom? Thranduil didn’t want to finish the thought.

“I never, uh,” Legolas said. His arms were still taut around Thranduil’s middle. “I never should have burdened you like I have. Please, forgive me, ada. I was blind.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I shouldn’t have let you take that crown, not as soon as you did. Three years tortured, I thought you’d weather it, but that was idealistic of me.”

“You think me weak?”

“No, ada, no. Of course not.” Legolas voice gave in and he said no more but was reduced to hiccupping sobs. Tauriel let go of Thranduil’s wrists and got to her feet.

“What do we do?” she asked wearily.

Thranduil knew what he wanted her to do. Draw her knife, draw it across his throat, have this whole miserable world be done with him. He would have begged her too if it hadn’t been for the small voice in his head, not Oropher, but reasonable and strong.

_Mairon is still here. He could have fled, run for the hills without you, but he is still here. There is hope._

“Take him to his room,” Legolas said and released his hold on Thranduil. “Station guards, he is not to leave. I’m so sorry, ada.”

“You would lock me away?” Thranduil asked. He let himself be pulled up and away from the slumped form of his son. “Have you no love left for me?”

“It is because I love you that I do this.” And Thranduil wanted to believe him. But at the end of the day, he felt betrayed. By his own son. More proof he didn’t belong.


	27. Sanctuary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy :)
> 
> 'Sanctuary' by Crystal Lake. 
> 
> TWs: suicidal thoughts, symptoms of an eating disorder, sexual content

_I just want to break free  
I bite my tongue until it's numb  
I'm waiting for the night to come  
I hold the knife with my knuckles white  
To protect my sanctuary_

The forest awoke to muted sunlight and a sky full of rain-pregnant clouds for the fourth day in a row, and Thranduil with it. Unlike the few woodland creatures in attendance, he made no effort to stretch his limbs, had no haste to get out of bed. He had nowhere to go, after all. Put under house arrest and by his own son. Oh, Oropher would find this too funny to believe it.

 _What are you, a fairy tale princess? Or why do you keep getting yourself locked up and mope about?_ A rumble of laughter and then the cold tip of a nose against his own. _Get out of bed, Thranduil. Stop acting the part._

Galion came and went with fresh sheets which Thranduil declined and a breakfast of scrambled eggs and bread that couldn't break through the layer of impassiveness he had developed when it came to food. His appetite had never followed him out of Dol Guldur, and hunger seemed a shy beast these days. Thranduil knew of the consequences. The constant tremble of his hands was a product of that as much as his imbalanced state of mind. Fits of weakness, stars that blotted out his vision. Ribs and hipbones threatened to burst forth from skin that shone like dew and felt as flimsy. No, Thranduil wanted nothing to eat and before his confinement had managed only what Legolas forced into him with his sad expressions over the dinner table. Worry meant questions meant discovery. Decrepit now that Mairon was locked up and their plans forfeit.

By midday, Thranduil was bored enough that he heaved himself over to his armchair and pulled the plate onto his lap. He was lethargic and sorry for himself and the cold, slimy eggs managed to express that beautifully. They were disgusting and all he would manage for the day. Left with a festering brackishness, Thranduil turned his chair toward the window. Looked out over the vast expanse of barren treetops, a forest that expected eternal winter, and made to empty his mind. There was no use in ruminations and worries. Thranduil harbored no illusion that he could break out of his own palace any more than he could have broken out of Dol Guldur. He was weaker here, devoid of command.

Thranduil watched a bird of prey draw its circles below swollen clouds that bordered on black. It dove down into the forest and emerged seconds later with a large hare in its claws.

 _Flee_ , Thranduil said. _Before the rain comes and the winds whip you out of the sky._

In the distance, lightning struck where Thranduil knew the snowy peak of Erebor to grace the horizon. It was veiled by the storm which raged there and drew ever closer to Mirkwood. Thranduil hoped they would all drown in it. If Mairon did not find a way out, Thranduil would choose death. The window he sat at was wide enough for him to clamber through, the ground far enough to embrace him in his demise. Shattered bones and sludge for innards. The kind of ugly end he deserved.

 _Snap out of it_ , Oropher said and Thranduil wanted him out of his head. It made all of this so much more difficult. _I never knew you to be a whiney little-_

Thranduil's head snapped around as his door creaked open, fury wild in his chest. Who dared to come in here without knocking? He might have been under arrest, but he was still a king.

“What?” he snapped, blushed when he saw that it was Mairon, one finger held to his lips. He came into the room on tiptoes and closed the door behind himself, then turned the key two times. His hair was ruffled and the scars on his neck glittered a porcelain white, but other than that he looked the same as Thranduil had last seen him, half a week ago.

“This feels familiar,” Mairon commented and shuffled over. “Only that back home I didn't have to create a diversion and knock out three people in order to visit you.”

Back home. Thranduil's throat tightened, but his grief was vanquished as Mairon climbed onto his lap, the chair wide enough that Elros' legs fit in the spaces between Thranduil and the armrests.

“It seems we have come up on a roadblock,” Mairon said, playing with Thranduil's hair. His other hand came to rest against Thranduil's heartbeat and as its heat seeped through cloth and skin, the organ stuttered, then settled into a healthy, rhythmic beat. A small miracle.

“Yes.” Thranduil gulped. He held Mairon by the hips. Not a tyrant, harsh and rough against him, but a kindred spirit, a light and comfortable weight. “I must apologize.”

“As much as I enjoy your pleas for forgiveness, no. This one is on me.”

“What?”

“I should have slit her throat when I had the chance,” Mairon said and bowed his head. His form shook slightly and Thranduil felt tears well up in his eyes. “Our plans are no longer actionable; we have to abandon them. Forgive me.” No. He would not let Mairon blame himself. This was as all Thranduil's fault.

“There is nothing to forgive. I am grateful you let Tauriel live and am at fault for her misbehavior. I should have been able to get a grasp of the situation, but Legolas... he mistrusts my judgement.”

Their noses touched, not icy like the image of his father, but infusing him with warmth.

“It doesn't matter. Let us move forward.”

Mairon kissed him and Thranduil's eyes fluttered shut. Oh, how he had missed this. Warm and dry lips that knew how to tune the strings of Thranduil's jumbled mind. Teeth that scraped against his skin in the most harmonic cacophony Thranduil had ever heard. With nimble fingers, Mairon played him, slid his dressing gown open and off his shoulders, traced the lines of his collar bones and chest with fingertips that left sparks of electricity wherever the traversed. Each shudder and needy whine that he drew from Thranduil a new note in their discordant song as outside, thunder crashed down upon the forest. The trees crackled in its wake and so did Thranduil's skin.

“Come now,” Mairon murmured against Thranduil's mouth and got to his feet, pulled Thranduil with him by the hands. The thin cloth that had covered him fell away, left him bare. Mairon eyed Thranduil's hardness, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. He tugged at him. “Come.”

They sank onto the rug, more comfortable than the bed by far, Mairon on top of Thranduil, peering at him from under heavy lids. Affection and want, like a volley of arrows, pierced Thranduil wherever their bodies touched. Before leaning down to recapture Thranduil's lips, Mairon pulled his own tunic over his head. Thranduil had never seen him in a state of undress before. More badly healed gashes hugged Elros' torso like an exoskeleton, the scar tissue translucent in its paleness. Before Thranduil could ponder that, Mairon was pressed up against him, skin to skin in an immeasurable burst of pleasure, want, need, more. More.

“Always so eager,” Mairon said. Thranduil hadn't meant to say that last bit out loud. Ah, well, if it prompted Mairon to slide his tongue against Thranduil's, to grind his clothed erection against Thranduil's exposed one, all for the better. Mairon had never kissed him this long, this intense and thirsty, but Thranduil relished every second. They kissed until their lips were puffy and swollen and then some and Mairon worked him open with gentle fingers. Auto-piloted by his own mounting need to feel Mairon inside of him, Thranduil's body relaxed against the invading fingers, welcomed them as they stroked against the most sensitive parts of him. He writhed and moaned into Mairon's mouth and it was so much and not enough and, Eru, he was going to burst.

“Please,” he whimpered when their mouths parted.

“Please what?” Mairon asked in an echo of another night like this, his voice ragged around the edges. Dark with lust.

 _I am imagining things_ , Thranduil thought. His mind produced those undertones. To have Mairon come undone in their union was unimaginable, and the thought nearly gave Thranduil a heart attack.

“Take me, fuck me, rip me apart, however you like it. But please get on with it?”

A flash of lightning, much closer this time, illuminated the room and put Mairon's face in an ominous shadow as he drew back a fraction and lined his cock up against Thranduil. Thunder boomed in tandem with the push of the Maia's hips and as the first drops of rain pattered against the outside of the palace walls, a shiver of bliss rippled through Thranduil’s body, completing him. This was not the rough treatment he had gotten to savor over the last weeks, no teeth and claws, no choking, no slapping, no bite marks in sight. It was almost benign, and it felt like a parting gift.

“Master?” Thranduil moaned, and his eyes rolled into his head, as Mairon drew back and thrust forward again, excruciating and slow.

“Hush.” Mairon silenced him with lips as sweet and soft as peaches. Their bare chests slid against each other, sweaty and hot and the intensity of it all had Thranduil lose his train of thought. He held onto Mairon's back, fingernails digging into the raised skin between scars and met him halfway in his surges, an upward spiral of skin and pleasure and sweat and heat. Thranduil's legs tensed as Mairon collided with him again, and again, and again. They shared breaths as their bodies melted together, fused in their elation. It was almost as good as having Mairon share his head. Thranduil let out a long-winded moan as Mairon hit him at just the right angle. And then once more.

Thranduil unraveled and he cared not who might overhear the bestial sounds he made nor the soft slapping of their impacts. Over and over until his release built, seconds away now, he was going to explode with it, die in heavenly bliss, he was going to-

Mairon made a low sound, almost like a moan, as his hips stuttered and Thranduil came, crying out. From the startled look on his face, so did Mairon, his mouth fallen open. A revelation unlike anything, to see his master this close to open desire. It had Thranduil dissolve under him.

With a grunt, Mairon collapsed on top of Thranduil, radiating warmth like an open fire and Thranduil held him close.

“Master?”

“Yes, my little eglath?” Mairon crooned and sucked on the skin behind Thranduil’s ear which had him curl his toes. He didn’t deserve such tenderness. Something was up, he could feel it vibrate under Mairon’s skin the way he could feel the storm seep into his bones. Charged and full of power barely held back. 

“You will not forsake me, will you? We will leave together?”

“Under one condition,” Mairon said, peppering open-mouthed kisses along Thranduil’s neck. The skin was ticklish and sensitive, but each one felt like a small revelation. “You will stay in Dol Guldur. I have dealings in the South, but I trust you. You will be ruthless. You will lead my army against those of your son and of that imp-king of Dale. You will claim the Lonely Mountain and raise Angmar back to glory. You will never question me again. Can you do that for me, Thranduil?”

Thranduil’s reply came not instantly and he paid for it. Needle-sharp teeth sank into the junction of shoulder and neck. He could feel his skin burst open like a bubble but knew not to hiss in the pain that bloomed moments later. Gone were the affectionate gestures and the soft-spoken words. Gone the post-orgasmic buzz.

“I can do that,” he said, kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling beam. If he blinked, the visions would come, and he couldn’t allow it. In his mind, Thranduil had no doubts of his abilities. Objectively, he could do all of that, cast aside what remained of his moral codex and be done with this life. In his heart… well. Thranduil could not say for sure that, when face to face with Legolas or Tauriel on a battlefield, he would remain sturdy. With Mairon’s guidance, perhaps. Perhaps, perhaps.

“Swear it or I _will_ leave you behind.”

“I swear it,” Thranduil said and was rewarded with another sugar-sweet kiss. For these, he would make any oath.


	28. Echo Chamber

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only four more to go!!! Enjoy :)
> 
> Title is based on the song 'Echo Chamber' by Veil of Maya.
> 
> tws: graphic violence, gore, ptsd symptoms

_In my mind alone shadows watching me fall  
Down this hollowed hole to insanity   
This dead space inside of me it bleeds me dry   
This dark space has finally made up its mind_

Mairon left Thranduil sated, but doubtful. He cleaned himself and crawled back into his bed, spent an uneasy few hours in a state of dreams and nightmares that battled for ground in his mind, a war that drained him terribly.

One moment, Thranduil was bent over Feren’s dead body, gnawing at his broken wrists because he was hungry, so hungry after weeks in this pit. Feren woke up with a scream and blood burst from his lips in spurts, obscuring his horrified screeches as he saw his king turned a monster.

The next, Thranduil leaned on a mithril balustrade that overlooked the ball room of Menegroth. He was young, clad in silly rich silks of all the colors of the rainbow. There was a constant smile on his lips, his face ached from it, as he watched the most beautiful Eldar of Thingol’s court swirl and fly below, arm in arm or on their own. He was on a break, exultation high in his cheeks. A night full of wonders ahead.

Then, a much more familiar scene. Dead bodies everywhere, the stench of blood and decay mingled with dirt. Weapons blunt and rusty from days of fighting and above it all the threat of an age: a dragon that spanned the entire field of Thranduil’s vision. Oropher, screaming. Oropher, bleeding from a gash across his chest. Oropher, in the direct line of the dragon’s fire. The end of the world.

Another ball room, this one gapingly empty. Tables covered in cloth to prevent them from catching dust lined the far wall. The ceiling jutted high into the air and opened to a starlit sky that was washed through with the first tendrils of daylight, gray and pinkish. Thranduil in the middle of it, retracing the steps of his favorite waltz on his own. Practice for the big event. _It is unseemly for a prince to dance on his own_ , Oropher had laughed, sneaking up on Thranduil. He had caught his son mid-motion, had drawn him into position and had swirled him around the room until the sun pounded down on them in her noon high. Thranduil had never laughed so much in his life.

When Thranduil opened his eyes, he was alone. Naturally. The pining unbearable. Not long before, he had felt nothing at the thought of his father. Had thought him weak and foolish. Projection.

Oropher had been strong and proud, a momentary decision to spoil a life of accomplishment and compassion. Thranduil was the weak one, had thrown his devotion at the murderer of his father. And he couldn’t help himself either. His body was wired to want Mairon whether Thranduil agreed with his motives or not. He didn’t disagree exactly; existence was painful either way. But existing as an alcohol-sodden king of an isolated realm who outwardly stuck to what was deemed ethical took less strength and will-power than to exist as the servant of Sauron, their Dark Overlord and Second King of Arda. To have to wreak havoc upon this world.

With a sigh, Thranduil turned to his back. He had to wait for Mairon’s return. Things would sort themselves out.

_Lend me strength, master, for I lack it thoroughly. I long for things I should renounce._

It was this place. Too many memories and people to awaken them. All those voices, fighting their war before him. It had been easier when Legolas’ pleas had been imaginary, when Bard’s professions of love had been echoes and Oropher, his magic and laws, all that remained of him, had been a distant memory. Mairon’s guidance interfered with. His axioms muddled by feelings Thranduil had thought ripped from him.

_Ada, help me_ , he thought, then cursed himself for this weakness. He was to be Mairon’s second-in-command. There was no place for sentiment and ghosts of long-dead fathers. No more. No more.

Thranduil fell back into a state of fitful sleep, drifted from one dream to the next and found himself in a dozen different futures before he was jolted awake by the bed dipping to announce the presence of another. Not Mairon though, Thranduil would have felt him approach.

“Thranduil,” Tauriel said. Her touch was icy against his forehead, and she gasped under her breath. “You are feverish. How are you feeling?”

“Can I ask you something?” Thranduil cracked his eye open. Tauriel sat by his side with a worried expression on her features. Her lip had healed, and the bruise had turned into a burst of greens and yellows. Her hair was braided into one thick rope of hair that curled along her chest.

“Of course.”

“How did you get out?”

“Ah,” Tauriel smiled grimly. “It was both a blessing and a curse that Sauron left the perimeter with you. The orcs had no orders when it came to me, from what I gather he told them to do with me as they pleased.”

“Did they…” Thranduil trailed off. It was too horrible an image, Tauriel on the ground, defiled by a reeking, slimy orc with yellow shattered fingernails and a cloven tongue. He shuddered and so did she.

“They tried. But you know me.” Tauriel shrugged. “Anyway, I waited for my chance, then ran for it. Killed as many of the rats as I could. Can I ask you something in return?”

Thranduil nodded, though he felt queasy and grappled for some water. With a shake of her head Tauriel reached for a glass, all courtesy of Galion, and brought it to Thranduil’s chapped lips. It has heavenly, sweet life trickling down his throat.

“What did he do to you?” Tauriel asked. Her concern had been replaced by a veiled over expression as she remembered her own torture, the drawn-out days and cold nights. Fondness and fear battled in Thranduil’s chest. Again, he thought how they had been simpler days, mindless.

“Everything,” Thranduil said. And he would go through it again. Not willingly at first perhaps, but with Mairon’s saccharine promises. Well.

“Eru be damned.” Tauriel closed her eyes. “Scoot over.”

“What?”

“I said scoot over,” Tauriel said and pushed at him. It was a terrible idea. If Mairon came in and found Thranduil curled up with another person, Tauriel of all people (trumped only by Bard in its contrariety) he would leave Thranduil behind. The war again, dreams and nightmares, terribly exhausting. It boiled down to this: in the long run, Thranduil was bound to Mairon by every definition of the word, momentarily however, he needed the comfort and he needed the love. It was pure and unconditional. And Tauriel understood. To a degree.

Thranduil made space for her and Tauriel settled down beside him, her forehead against his shoulder. She took a shuddering exhale and interlaced their fingers.

“I have lived long,” she murmured. “Long and well. I have seen many wars. But this? Elbereth, I never thought something could make me beg for death. I nearly let them have me.”

“What made you push through?” Thranduil let his head fall to the side, pressed it against hers. He felt too faint of heart to resist the way his muscles relaxed back into sleep mode. There was no doubt that he would have preferred Mairon over Tauriel. Would have gladly traded them. But Mairon was locked in a cell and Tauriel understood. Thranduil tried not to let the implications of that too close to the tangle of emotions in his chest.

“I have no idea,” Tauriel said. “Legolas probably. And you. You are my family. When I couldn’t find you…”

“Seems we have abandoned each other,” Thranduil replied.

“Seems we have.”


	29. The Very Last Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Top three!
> 
> 'The Very Last Time' is a painful song by Bullet For My Valentine, check it out :)
> 
> tws:

_Your eyes don't lie  
A pair of daggers cutting through my mind  
Your stare it rips a hole into my life  
Am I supposed to leave this all behind?_

It was not Mairon who absolved Thranduil of his arrest, but Galion who burst into the room without precedent. Sweat layered over a splotchy face, and his breath came in frantic puffs. Thranduil sat on his armchair by the window and merely raised an eyebrow. Meant to comment on his butler’s lack of cordiality when he noticed the small line of red that trickled from the corner of his mouth and the blood-smeared hand that was pressed over Galion’s side. The thick red liquid oozed out between his fingers.

“Mylord,” Galion gasped and went into a fit of wet gurgles. Thranduil was on his feet in an instant and caught Galion as he keeled over.

“Who did this to you? What has happened?”

“It’s Sauron, mylord. He has Legolas.”

Another bout of coughs wrecked Galion’s body. All the bells went off in Thranduil’s head. This was it then, their grand flight. He hadn’t gambled for it to be a blood bath.

“Legolas?” he asked dumbly. Galion nodded.

“Leave me,” he gasped. “Go save your son.”

Thranduil blinked. The words sank in with delay and he wanted to laugh. Foolish, Legolas was safe. A lure for Thranduil.

_Not necessarily_. The voice of reason, unwanted and filthy. _Mairon may just be fed up. He doesn’t care for Legolas._ Panic flooded Thranduil’s chest.

As gently as possible, Thranduil lowered Galion to the ground and gave him a stray shirt to press against the wound.

“Go, please.”

“Where are they?”

“Throne room.”

“Alright,” Thranduil said and grabbed a cushion from his seat, pushed it under Galion’s head. “Deep breaths, I’ll send help.” He felt a stab of guilt as he rushed out of the room. Wretched Galion, too good for Thranduil. If it meant getting to Mairon, getting to go with Mairon, Thranduil would let him bleed out. Luckily, he ran into one of Legolas’ servants on his way down the steps and he sent her after Galion with orders to get him to a healer. She dropped the washing and rushed towards Thranduil’s chambers which made him go easier towards destiny, or his downfall.

The halls were deserted as he ran. He was in his dressing gown, glad he had worn leggings underneath, feeling like a lunatic. Whatever Mairon had done, it festered in the corners, a silence unbreakable, interrupted only by Thranduil’s frantic breaths. He burst into the throne hall, saw them long before they saw him. Legolas was on his knees before the throne, head bowed. Mairon stood over him.

Thranduil tried to catch his breath and drew his gown closer about himself, tightening the knot on the belt. This was nothing to be panicked about. Legolas was up and breathing, a little negotiation on Thranduil’s part and his son would be fine. They hadn’t spoken since the disaster with Tauriel and Mairon, and Thranduil found that his anger and frustration with Legolas had evaporated. The boy had no idea what he was dealing with and as such was to be forgiven for his insensibilities. He wanted the best for his father, a sentiment Thranduil could understand. Legolas was but misguided in what the best for his father actually entailed. The solution was easy. Thranduil would leave with Mairon and leave Legolas behind, unscathed. Everything after was a matter for tomorrow, or the days beyond. What mattered now was to get out.

Thranduil stepped onto the walkway that lead to the throne. His resolve hardened with every slap of his feet on the old wood. Once a tree root, he could feel life pulse beneath him. Not for much longer though.

“Ah,” Mairon said gleefully as Thranduil stepped onto the platform with a small smile. “There you are.”

There he was. Faced with his son and his lord, two different beings and both he loved wholeheartedly. Legolas peered up at him with reddened eyes. There was dagger at his throat, held in place by Mairon’s hand. The other rested on Legolas’ shoulder. An angry bruise, akin to Tauriel’s, had sprouted on Legolas’ cheek. A mixture of anger and pity clogged up Thranduil’s lungs. This was unnecessary at best. To hurt Legolas… Thranduil couldn’t bear it. He had to bear it.

_This is your chance_ , Oropher again. Always in the worst spots with his patronizing comments. Why did he have to be cursed with these hallucinations? Why his father whom he had never been able to deny a thing? _Shed this evil. Be his ada._

This was what it was always going to come down to, Thranduil realized. Legolas or Mairon. The light of his life or the shadows he could hide in. A new spring for this world, full of love and joy and all the wondrous innocence Thranduil had lost so long ago. Pitted against an everlasting desolation, ashes like snow covering the world. Legolas or Mairon. Life or death.

_It is because I love you that I do this._ Legolas’ words echoed inside of Thranduil’s skull.

Maybe he wouldn’t have to choose.

“There I am,” he said, careful to keep his voice amiable when it wanted to evade him. It was a precarious balance to strike. One wrong word and Legolas would bleed out like a pig before his eyes. No telling what would happen after, not when Thranduil had learned to mistrust his own mind so thoroughly. “Ready to leave.”

“I thought we’d have a little fun before we left,” Mairon said. Incalculable mischief danced like fireflies in his stolen eyes. “Thought we’d start this war with a regicide.”

No. This war had started a long time ago. No. Legolas was only a child. No. Not his son. But. Nononono.

“Ada,” Legolas said, but his words were caught off as Mairon pressed the blade tighter to his throat. A thin line of red appeared at its edge and fury tore free in Thranduil’s chest.

_Legolas? I do love you._

_Please, don’t forget it._

Thranduil wouldn’t.

“Is this really necessary?” he asked through gritted teeth. “I will go with you, as was our plan. Why hurt him and waste time?”

“Come now, love. He will have to die eventually,” Mairon purred. Legolas’s eyes widened, latched onto Thranduil’s face. No tears now, just tiredness. Endless tiredness.

_Please forgive me, ada. I was blind._

“You promised me.”

“Did I?”

Thranduil huffed in frustration, shook his head.

“Let him go… please.” The same pleas over and over again. Thranduil was in a loop. There were too many people he meant to keep safe and all his instincts screamed at him to heed Mairon’s calls. He was caught in a loop, and around him everything fell apart. He needed a dozen more versions of himself to keep it together and all he had was this one, weak and blurry around the edges. Torn between love for a son and loyalty for a master. Thranduil wanted to curse the day he was born. No way out but straight ahead.

“Why?”

“Because he is all I have,” Thranduil admitted. “Because nothing and no one will ever vanquish my love for him. He is all I ever had.”

“Oh, Thranduil. I thought I was all you had. Don’t you see? This is exactly why he must die. While Legolas lives, you’ll be tied to his side. You’ll be unable to ascend.”

Thranduil struggled for words, for breath. There was a tangle of tears and unspoken things in his throat. Legolas cried for him. Unblinking as he held Thranduil’s gaze.

How had they ended up here? A complex equation. The outcome? Thranduil’s downfall. He understood that Legolas steeled himself for his death. Understood that Legolas was ready to trade his life for his father’s. Thranduil finally understood why Oropher had pushed him out of the way, had let himself be consumed by the dragon’s fury.

_It is because I love you that I do this._

“I-“

“Stop right there.” Tauriel had appeared at the steps to the platform, three guards on her heel. All out of breath and red-faced with fury.

“Gorthaur, please,” Thranduil found himself saying. He had meant to say a different word, to use the title Mairon had instilled in him and deserved. But with everyone’s eyes trailed on him, he couldn’t. A small part of him felt shame at what he meant to do despite his heartfelt confessions. He didn’t want Legolas to remember his father a turncoat. “What are a few more days? I will not hesitate when the time comes, but not like this. Please.” Thranduil had no choice in the matter. Mairon had made him, Mairon would undo him. But Legolas could be free of them both.

“Fine,” Mairon said. He released Legolas and kicked him in the back so that he landed sprawled on the ground.

“Seize him,” Tauriel commanded. The guards rushed forward and so did Thranduil, all focused on getting to Mairon, but before either of them could, the Maia had flung himself on top of Legolas and had buried the blade in his shoulder. Legolas howled in pain and Thranduil recoiled.

“Payback,” Mairon leered. He didn’t resist as two of the guards grabbed him and hauled him away from their prince. Tauriel sank to her knees by Legolas’ side and pulled him up into her arms. The third guard aimed a fist at Mairon’s face and punched him in a replay of the events that had happened a week prior. The blow had a bone crack, the sound echoing loudly. Mairon did not look at Thranduil as he uttered his next words: “My cue to leave. But do not fret, my friends. I will be back with fire and fury and make all of you beg for death ere the end. So long.”

“Mairon,” Thranduil yelled, no longer held back. Who cared what the others thought? He was bound to this creature and he wanted no other life, not anymore. Legolas would be fine with Tauriel. Thranduil had to go with him. His destiny. His downfall. His one and only chance at deliverance. “Mairon, please. I will find you.”

Mairon shook his head and Elros’ mouth opened for the last time.

“Do not follow me, eglath. You are neither worthy nor worth the effort,” Mairon said. Elros’ body went limp in the arms of his captors and a black mist curled high above the scene. It travelled the perimeter of the hall and disappeared. Mairon was gone. Left Thranduil. Left Thranduil’s heart to shatter into a thousand pieces. Left.


	30. Savior

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAH we're finally here!! This is the last chapter, but there will be an epilogue. What a journey it has been from first conceptualizing this beast to finally posting the last two chapters. I learned so much writing this piece and I sincerely hope it brought some entertainment to some of you <3 enjoy the last bit
> 
> Chapter is titled after the song 'Savior' by Any Given Day. I will post the full playlist with the Epilogue

_Put your wings around me  
Hold my pieces together  
Through the darkest days  
Till the end of time  
Save me from fallin_

Thranduil burst from the palace doors with a scavenged blade in his hand. His vision blurred and wavered, but he would have known the way blind folded. He could feel the presence of the Dark Tower, looming in the distance. Could feel its aura as it seeped into all living things outside of the protection of his realm. His intuition guided him along the streaks of corruption within the forest’s essence. Onward, forward, toward. Back to Mairon. His thoughts were a jumbled stream of pleas and cries.

_Please, master, please come back. Do not leave me, you cannot mean it._

And:

_I need to get back, I need to find him and beg for mercy. He will forgive me and see that I am worthy and then I can belong again. I do not want to be on my own, oh Eru, please do not forsake me._

Already, he could feel the darkness closing in on him, its long tendril around his wrists and ankles that felt sluggish as he forced them onward. No, his heart screamed as it thrashed and pounded in his chest. No more. No, his fingers whimpered as they tightened around the sword in a feeble struggle against the numbness that took over his body in slow, icy waves. No more.

No more loneliness, no more long nights, no more fear for the future. All this Mairon had taken from him with gentle words and harsh punishments, and all of it he had returned to Thranduil with a forceful push into the abyss. He was bound to hit the ground and determined to regain his position before it could come to that. Another, much smaller part of him wanted to turn back, run all the way to Legolas and hold him close until all Arda was remade. But he forced that part to shut up.

Thranduil made it as far as the riverbank that marked the border of his realm. He was proud to say that it was a physical interference that stopped him there, not a weakness of his own. Not his liquid knees or his whirlwind nausea that had him halt his efforts. It was a man.

Right there, on the middle of a narrow bridge, stood Bard in his riding attire. A simple tunic and sepia coat, his hair unkempt and frizzy, his despair for armor. It made him look rock-solid. The blade in his hand did not waver as he took a step forward.

Something in Thranduil’s chest stirred, akin to hurt and affection. Bard had returned, had left his family behind once more and for what? Another futile effort at saving Thranduil? Oh, it was much too late for that. If only the bowman had come to Dol Guldur, had rescued him from its dungeons before Mairon’s teachings could take hold maybe. Just maybe Thranduil would have remained himself, oblivious and weak. The thought gave him energy, steadied him as though it had come from Mairon. Thranduil’s spine jerked straight, and his knees stabilized.

Bard stepped onto the bridge and unsheathed his own sword which caught the sunlight reflected by the river. The water was quiet as it wound its way through the forest beneath them, bubbly and cerulean on the surface but woven through with that same poisonous evil that ate away at the trees roots and consumed the bright flowers that blossomed along its bank. Thranduil tried to find the beauty in this decay, but all he saw was wilted petals that symbolized everything he had failed at as a king.

“Bard,” Thranduil said, and squared his shoulders. His ears twitched as he sounded out the surrounding trees for signs of others. Tauriel might have sent soldiers after him, unable to track him herself what with Legolas wounded as he was. Thranduil shook himself. He could not let those thoughts and images in, or his resolve would crumble. His son, his baby, for Eru’s sake. Mairon had promised not to harm him and yet here they were. Thranduil stopped himself and went back to his senses, the cries of crows all he heard. There was no one there. “You’re in my way.”

Thranduil struck, lightning-fast, or so he had thought. Bard parried and their swords clashed mid-way between them, so hard that Thranduil’s teeth chattered. Curious enough, he had only meant to scare, intimidate, but had he struck Bard, the blow might have been fatal. For all the ways he had esteemed himself ready for Mairon’s service, Thranduil felt he might have fallen short if the task at hand had been to kill. One of his own that was, and as such he had come to see Bard despite his reservations and protests. Their entanglement aside, Bard was part of this realm now. Still, the easy and relaxed façade he wore, made Thranduil’s blood boil. This was no simple matter. This was a life or death situation.

“Where to?” Bard asked.

“No concern of yours.”

“This is where you are wrong.” And he pushed, forcing Thranduil’s blade down. Ere he could think about it, Thranduil reacted, swirled on his feet and thrust forward to disarm Bard, but the bowman took a nimble step backward and met Thranduil again. They exchanged a few more blows, metal ringing through the air. Thranduil gained no ground though and anger ignited his muscles. Something was off. Bard, a strong man, but not special, could not equal him in a sword fight. There was no way. 

“Step. Aside.”

“I will not.”

Thranduil bared his teeth and growled as he lunged forward, but Bard was prepared for him. When Thranduil tried to hit him low, Bard’s blade was there. When Thranduil took a step back, Bard followed. His age showed clearer than ever, in the weathered lines on his face and the wispy grey hairs that framed it, but Thranduil had never felt more matched with him. A dragonslayer after all. Thranduil picked up the pace, flurries of blows and Bard parried every one. Their fight turned to a dance of sorts, back and forth and around in circles. Perfectly coordinated as though they had done this all their lives. When had Bard become a warrior? A warrior who could stand up to one of the oldest beings on Middle-earth and with ease? A mystery.

“This all you got? This is the might of King Thranduil? Sauron’s most devoted servant?” Bard called out, but there was no mockery in his voice. A simple question. Thranduil’s answer was to launch into a new attack, and with brute force alone, he managed to drive Bard back a few steps. He had no idea where Bard had picked up that it had been Mairon all along, but it mattered not. Trivial. “It need not be that way, you know that, right? I could help you.” And their blades met again, the impact reverberating in Thranduil’s bones. This was ridiculous. Mairon would never accept him back if he couldn’t even defeat a meager human. Bard wasn’t that though. Bard was proud and strong and – Mairon forgive him – beautiful in his fluid motions. His easy blocks and forceful swings. Thranduil felt heat rise to his cheek and he countered this bout of affection with aggression.

“Pathetic human,” he snarled. “Your heroism is misplaced. You cannot stop me.” With a last effort, he took a swing at Bard, fell into a stance that allowed him to defend his ground, and when Bard made to attack, Thranduil feigned left, ducked the oncoming blade, then hit Bard’s wrists with the flat side of his own, hard enough that he flinched and let his sword fall to the ground. Thranduil shook with rage, his breath coming in raspy puffs as his gaze swiveled between Bard – still no expression on his face, not in the face of death but in a simple conversation, stressed by swords – and the blade at his feet. His own was firm in his hand. He raised his eyebrows.

_See_ , he wanted to scream. _I am right. You cannot stop me. And if you try, I will end you._ Bard was quicker.

“Kill me if you must,” he said, and the neutral mask fell into a screwed-up expression of determined sorrow. “But look into my eyes when you do it. Or I will keep fighting you.”

“You are no match for me.” Not unarmed, not backed up like this. Bard gave him a sad smile, one that hit Thranduil like a slap across the face. Here they were, two shadows of kings, face to face. Here they were, one weak and one strong, and Thranduil could not discern who was who anymore.

“Maybe that was so once. Maybe that is still the case. But the strength that nurtures you now is corrupted. It will not last.”

“Fine,” Thranduil said through gritted teeth. It hurt, split his skull right in two, to look Bard in the eyes, to take it all in. A whole world of pain and regret and affection. Everything that had happened, everything Thranduil had said and still, this man worried for him. Eru, but Thranduil had done nothing to deserve it. On the contrary, he was bound for Dol Guldur, back to one who had done nothing but torture and degrade him. Thranduil took a deep breath and raised his sword once more. Raised it all the way to Bard’s throat. Let it hover there, close to grazing his skin, for just a moment. Strained all his muscles and pulled the sword to the side to have enough space to swing. “Any last words?”

“Only that I will always love you, wherever death may take me,” Bard said, and touched a finger to Thranduil’s cheek. Rough and warm. Something in Thranduil broke open. “And that I forgive you.”

The blade clattered to the ground, hit the bridge the same time that Thranduil’s knees did. There was no standing against the tidal wave that crashed over him. He buried his face in his hands and let it bear him away, let the sobs wreck his frame. Tears like a flood. Agony unbearable. A hundred, a thousand wrong turns. A man to crack him open.

The pain sobered him up and he felt as though awoken from a deep slumber. Part of him felt drawn towards that dark fortress, part of him wanted to get back up, to hack Bard apart and carve that adoring expression from his face, to go back to where he truly belonged. Belonged there even more for these instincts, for what kind of creature would want to disfigure someone he had once claimed to love? Thranduil was a monster. Had been made a monster. And then there was the other part. The part that yearned for Legolas and Tauriel and Oropher too. The part that had just roared back to life, that still loved Bard, that whimpered and howled as strong arms wrapped around him and pulled him close. Bard cradled Thranduil’s head against his chest.

“Oh, I am so sorry, my love. So sorry,” he said. But what for? Why did everyone keep apologizing to him when he was the one doing the hurting? How was Bard the sorry one when it should be Thranduil, begging for forgiveness? This was all wrong, and Thranduil wanted to run. Do away with all of it, the misery, the trauma, the love that suffocated him. He remembered why he had shut it out as it ate him alive. Ate him alive yet nurtured him. A paradox that had his head near explosion.

“Why?” Thranduil asked. “How?” How can you hold me when I almost cut your head off mere seconds ago? How can you love me when you have seen me worship the darkness like I once have the stars? How can you want me, corrupted and sullied as I am?

“Because you had no chance. He was stronger than you had accounted for and you fell prey to his schemes. But he is gone, Thranduil. He is gone. You can be free of him. I can help you be free of him.”

“You should loathe me.”

“I could never.”

Thranduil wanted to say so much, give a hundred apologies and thank yous at the same time. Spill his heart to Bard, a human, but so much stronger than Thranduil could ever pretend to be. He had no words. He clung to Bard, held on for dear life and let the well of his tears dry out, there on the edge of yet another winter of the world. Mairon was far from defeated. In all regards, Thranduil’s mission had only served to strengthen him, and still Bard was there. Muttered words of comfort against Thranduil’s hair. He smelled of wood, leather, and snow.

“I too love you,” Thranduil said, much later, wrapped in sheep skins, Bard’s arms and the knowledge that Legolas was a room over, bandaged and passed out on painkillers, but fine.

The man had long since fallen asleep, exhausted once the adrenaline had faded. His expression was slack, relaxed, and kept Thranduil tethered to all the reasons he stayed. Mairon’s voice in his head was still there but grew fainter with every breath Bard took. The coarse hand, intertwined with his own, made Thranduil feel like tomorrow mattered. Like loving Bard was no sentence, no sure doom. But a gift. And as such he resolved to treat it.


	31. Used And Abused

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is it. Enjoy this epilogue while you can, there may or may not be a sequel in the works and if it happens it will be dark and depressing most likely. That's just how I cope with life haha. Again, thank you to everyone who's been reading, I appreciate and love you all. :)
> 
> This chapter's title is the song 'Used And Abused' by Beartooth. Such a great song, adore it. Find the whole playlist below the chapter, it's a fun metal journey :D 
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)
> 
> TWs: graphic violence

_I'm not part of your institution  
'Cause you're just some grand illusion  
The pressures building gotta find my way through  
I'm not part of your institution  
'Cause you're just some grand illusion  
It's paralyzing being used and abused_

Thranduil was whirling death. He moved among the trees as he had done all his life, with lithe limbs and reverence for their beauty in his heart. Only that today his focus was not on them, but on the orcs that spilled forth from Dol Guldur and into all directions, fought the war of their master up North while he was busy running over the world of Men in the South.

It was a bloody fight, many fallen to either side and all they could do was to press on and beg for the ring bearer’s success. Thranduil’s head count was so high he lost track, but always more orcs came on to him and the army he had brought. Tauriel was at his backside screaming in rage as she beheaded two orcs in one strike and Thranduil threw a dagger at an archer that had his bow trailed at her. The orc fell from the trees with an indignant shriek and Tauriel shot him a grateful look before they both plunged forward in opposite directions, hacking, hacking. Carving open orcs as once Mairon had carved him open. The name was the only fragment Thranduil had kept of that time, like a bad habit he couldn’t seem to shake.

From the shadows between two trees, a low growl sounded followed by the unmistakable screams of Thranduil’s soldiers. He barked at Tauriel to hold her position as he dived forward, ran, tensed, then leapt across the distance that separated him from the massacre. He landed on the back of a ginormous warg which almost matched the one Azog had ridden, all those years ago. It was pitch-black and its teeth were bloodied, a severed arm suspended from them. Around it, in a neat circle, lay the bodies of some six elves, torn to shreds. Thranduil raised his long-blade and drove it down, split the animal’s skull with a deafening crack. It reared up, nearly throwing him off, but he kept his clutch on the sword until the warg was dead. Then, he jumped off the corpse, and retrieved his weapon. He was just about to leave the little meadow and get back into a position from which he could command, communicate with Celeborn who attacked from the South and the dwarves and men who fought on the plains before Erebor, when another low growl made the trees around him vibrate in apprehension.

Thranduil turned and fell into a stance, expecting to find another of the beasts. The warg he had slain stood with an arched back and bared teeth, its eyes a fiery orange. Slits for pupils where before there had been black. Thranduil’s heart accelerated and his hand found his chest where the arrowhead rested under a thick layer of mithril armor, a tribute from Dain to celebrate sixty years of peace between their kingdoms.

“So,” the warg said and the word was comically twisted, more growl than speech as it came from a mouth that was never meant to speak. “You are still alive then.” Cold sweat broke over Thranduil’s forehead. The voice was too familiar, too close to his healing heart and yet, he could swallow his fear down before he fell, fell into the void of another relapse. That, most of all, had been Bard’s parting gift to him. The strength to resist the darkness, should it ever come knocking at his door again.

“And you,” he replied, and straightened himself. His blade dripped with blood, but the rest of him was immaculate. Mairon, on the other hand, stood as a broken wolf at his feet, swaying. The light in his eyes flickered.

 _He is still weak_ , Thranduil thought and wondered how Mairon ever managed to pervert him like he had. _Because I let him._

“Barely,” Thranduil added.

“It is only a matter of time before the ring-bearer falls into my hands. I must admit you’re putting up a valiant effort. I thought I had left you to die, broken as you were.”

“So did I,” Thranduil admitted. He was half-tempted to cut the warg’s head off and be done with it, but something stopped him. He wanted Mairon to see that he had survived, that he was better than he had been in a long time. That his power over Thranduil had not lasted and that his power over the world would never be restored.

“Then why didn’t you? Why are you still here, my forsaken little elf?” The warg patted towards him, slowly, until he was a foot away from Thranduil. Its head came up to Thranduil’s chest and those eyes, oh how he had never wanted to gaze into them again, those eyes held Thranduil’s as though no time had passed. Now, Thranduil felt raw, pure hatred at their sight.

“Because I, unlike you, have a family,” Thranduil said with a cold smile. His chest swelled.

“I will take your son’s life ere the sun has set today,” Mairon grunted, red saliva dripping off his chin. “He is a good fighter that one, but no one can stand against what I have conjured.”

“I am sure he will manage.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“I will honor his death as I have his life.”

“Oh yes, very noble of you. As if you are beyond sadness now. I can smell it on you, Thranduil, the bitter stench of mourning. Tell me, did your bowman make it long?”

“His death is ten years past, as you are very well aware, and I miss him every day.”

“Ha. What did loving him ever give to you, hm? He is dead and you are exactly where you were before.”

“You’re mistaken. Loving him taught me to forgive myself and to accept that the time I got to spent with him was precious enough that I don’t get to ruin it by drowning in grief.” Not like he had down with his mother, his father, Feren and all the others he had lost. Not this time.

“That’s pathetic.”

“No,” Thranduil said and he raised his blade once more. “It’s beautiful.” And with one swift motion, he cut the warg’s head off. The light in its eyes extinguished. Mairon was gone. Thranduil turned on his heel and dove back into the trees, back into the reality of the battle. He killed several dozen more orcs. He did not let any more of his people fall.

By the end of that week, the orcs were thinned out and driven back. The veil of darkness over Dol Guldur lifted. The forest responded with an outburst of life.

A few days after later, news from Lothlorien. The ring was destroyed. Sauron had fallen. They were free. Thranduil was free. Legolas would come back in one piece and Thranduil was free. He sent a prayer to wherever Bard was now, watching over them.

_We made it, love._

Weeks passed. Another letter.

Thranduil and Tauriel stood side by side at the edge of the forest. She nursed a broken leg and had to hold onto her king to keep upright as they waited for Legolas to come home under the banner of victory and freedom. Come home he did, a brilliant smile on his lips and a grumpy dwarf behind him.

Thranduil and Tauriel burst out in laughter. They embraced both Legolas and Gimli. And Greenwood the Great rose again, to full glory and a brighter future.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: I Won't Give In - Asking Alexandria  
> 2: In Between - Beartooth   
> 3: Elegies - Make Them Suffer  
> 4: Settle Down Society - While She Sleeps  
> 5: Sleepwalking - Bring Me The Horizon   
> 6: Dear Insanity - Asking Alexandria  
> 7: Nihilist - Architects   
> 8: Memories - Bury Tomorrow  
> 9: Drown - Bring Me The Horizon   
> 10: Bow Down - I Prevail   
> 11: Ignorance is Bliss – Beartooth  
> 12: Redefined – As I Lay Dying   
> 13: Me In My Own Head – Beartooth  
> 14: Soft – Motionless in White  
> 15: Redefining Hatred – Upon a Burning Body   
> 16: Fireworks – Make Them Suffer   
> 17: Forever Marked – Currents   
> 18: Disguise – Motionless in White   
> 19: Last Light – Bury Tomorrow  
> 20: Mercy – The Ghost Inside  
> 21: Black and Blue – Crystal Lake  
> 22: Save Yourself – Make Them Suffer   
> 23: Civil Isolation – While She Sleeps  
> 24: Begging For Mercy – Bullet For My Valentine  
> 25: Six Feet Under – Crystal Lake   
> 26: Parasite – Betraying the Martyrs  
> 27: Sanctuary – Crystal Lake  
> 28: Echo Chamber – Veil of Maya  
> 29: The Very Last Time – Bullet For My Valentine   
> 30: Savior – Any Given Day   
> Epilogue: Used And Abused - Beartooth


End file.
